:^'' 


fe;:-.!V  :-;-^' 


#^i^ 


Ia?t-'  >: 


i 


Jg    (Hi.,U^.fH^■'    '  -  A^*  ©^cZt^ 


THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  ILLINOIS 

LIBRARY 

From  the  collection  of 

Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 

Purchased.  1918, 

823 

V.2 


ltvaWl*»-|-9 


ROSEHILL  LIMITED   EDITION 


ROMOLA 


BY 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


IX    THREE    VOLUMES 

Vol.  II. 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 

ESTES     AND     LAURIAT 

1893 


ROSEHILL    LIMITED   EDITION. 
Limited  to  One  Thousand  Copies. 

m,  5.89 


TYPOGRAPHY,  ELECTROTYPING,  AND 
PRINTING  BY  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON, 
UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


V.2 


CONTENTS. 

VOL.  11 


Book  II. 

CHAFTEX  PACK 

I.  Florence  expects  a  Guest 1 

II.  TuE  Prisoners 13 

III.  After-Thoughts 25 

IV.  Inside  the  Duomo 30 

V.  Outside  the  Duomo 40 

VI.  The  Garment  of  Fear .  47 

VII.  The  Young  Wife 55 

VIII.  The  Painted  Record 70 

IX.  A  Moment  of  Triumph 77 

X.  The  Avenger's  Secret 87 

XI.  Fruit  is  Seed 101 

XII.  A  Revelation 109 

XIII.  Baldassarre  makes  an  Acquaintance      .     .  124 

XIV.  No  Place  for  Repentance 136 

XV.  What  Florence  was  thinking  of  ...     .  153 

XVI.  Ariadne  Discrowns  Herself 159 

XVII.  The  Tabernacle  Unlocked 174 

XVIII.  The  Black  Marks  become  Magical    .     .     .  181 

XIX.  A  Supper  in  the  Rucellai  Gardens  .    .    .  191 


800199 


ROMOLA. 


KOMOLA. 


BOOK  II. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST. 

It  was  the  17th  of  November,  1494 :  more  than 
eighteen  months  since  Tito  and  Romola  had  been 
finally  united  in  the  joyous  Easter  time,  and  had 
had  a  rainbow-tinted  shower  of  comfits  thrown 
over  them,  after  the  ancient  Greek  fashion,  in 
token  that  the  heavens  would  shower  sweets  on 
them  through  all  their  double  life. 

Since  that  Easter  a  great  change  had  come  over 
the  prospects  of  Florence ;  and  as  in  the  tree  that 
bears  a  myriad  of  blossoms,  each  single  bud  with 
its  fruit  is  dependent  on  the  primary  circulation 
of  the  sap,  so  the  fortunes  of  Tito  and  Romola 
were  dependent  on  certain  grand  political  and  so- 
cial conditions  which  made  an  epoch  in  the  history 
of  Italy. 

In  this  very  November,  little  more  than  a  week 
ago,  the  spirit  of  the  old  centuries  seemed  to  have 
re-entered  the  breasts  of  Florentines.  The  great 
bell  in  the  palace  tower  had  rung  out  the  hammer- 

VOL.  II. —  1 


2  ROMOLA. 

sound  of  alarm,  and  the  people  had  mustered  with 
their  rusty  arms,  their  tools  and  impromptu  cud- 
gels, to  drive  out  the  Medici.  The  gate  of  San 
Gallo  had  been  fairly  shut  on  the  arrogant,  exas- 
perating Piero,  galloping  away  towards  Bologna 
with  his  hired  horsemen  frightened  behind  him, 
and  shut  on  his  keener  young  brother,  the  cardi- 
nal, escaping  in  the  disguise  of  a  Franciscan 
monk :  a  price  had  been  set  on  both  their  heads. 
After  that,  there  had  been  some  sacking  of  houses, 
according  to  old  precedent ;  the  ignominious  images, 
painted  on  the  public  buildings,  of  the  men  who 
had  cons"nired  against  the  Medici  in  days  gone 
by,  were  effaced ;  the  exiled  enemies  of  the  Medici 
were  invited  home.  The  half-fledged  tyrants  were 
fairly  out  of  their  splendid  nest  in  the  Via  Larga, 
and  the  Eepublic  had  recovered  the  use  of  its  will 
again. 

But  now,  a  week  later,  the  great  palace  in  the 
Via  Larga  had  been  prepared  for  the  reception  of 
another  tenant ;  and  if  drapery  roofing  the  streets 
with  unwonted  colour,  if  banners  and  hangings 
pouring  out  of  the  windows,  if  carpets  and  tap- 
estry stretched  over  all  steps  and  pavement  on 
which  exceptional  feet  might  tread,  were  an  un- 
questionable proof  of  joy,  Florence  was  very  joyful 
in  the  expectation  of  its  new  guest.  The  stream 
of  colour  flowed  from  the  palace  in  the  Via  Larga 
round  by  the  cathedral,  then  by  the  great  Piazza 
della  Signoria,  and  across  the  Ponte  Vecchio  to 
the  Porta  San  Prediano,  —  the  gate  that  looks  to- 
wards Pisa.  There,  near  the  gate,  a  platform  and 
canopy  had  been  erected  for  the  Signoria ;  and 
Messer  Luca  Corsini,  doctor  of  law,  felt  his  heart 
palpitating  a  little  with  the  sense  that  he  had  a 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST.  3 

Latin  oration  to  read;  and  every  chief  elder  in 
Florence  had  to  make  himself  ready,  with  smooth 
chin  and  well-lined  silk  lucco,  to  walk  in  proces- 
sion ;  and  the  well-born  youths  were  looking  at 
their  rich  new  tunics  after  the  French  mode  which 
was  to  impress  the  stranger  as  having  a  peculiar 
grace  when  worn  by  Florentines ;  and  a  large  body 
of  the  clergy,  from  the  archbishop  in  his  effulgence 
to  the  train  of  monks,  black,  white,  and  gray,  were 
consulting  betimes  in  the  morning  how  they  should 
marshal  themselves,  with  their  burden  of  relics  and 
sacred  banners  and  consecrated  jewels,  that  their 
movements  might  be  adjusted  to  the  expected 
arrival  of  the  illustrious  visitor,  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon. 

An  unexampled  visitor!  For  he  had  come 
through  the  passes  of  the  Alps  with  such  an 
army  as  Italy  had  not  seen  before :  with  thou- 
sands of  terrible  Swiss,  well  used  to  fight  for 
love  and  hatred  as  well  as  for  hire ;  with  a  host 
of  gallant  cavaliers  proud  of  a  name ;  with  an 
unprecedented  infantry,  in  which  every  man  in 
a  hundred  carried  an  arquebus;  nay,  with  can- 
non of  bronze,  shooting  not  stones  but  iron  balls, 
drawn  not  by  bullocks  but  by  horses,  and  capable 
of  firing  a  second  time  before  a  city  could  mend 
the  breach  made  by  the  first  ball.  Some  compared 
the  new-comer  to  Charlemagne,  reputed  rebuild er  of 
Florence,  welcome  conqueror  of  degenerate  kings, 
regulator  and  benefactor  of  the  Church ;  some  pre- 
ferred the  comparison  to  Cyrus,  liberator  of  the 
chosen  people,  restorer  of  the  Temple.  For  he 
had  come  across  the  Alps  with  the  most  glorious 
projects :  he  was  to  march  through  Italy  amid  the 
jubilees  of  a  grateful  and  admiring  people ;  he  was 


4  ROMOLA. 

to  satisfy  all  conflicting  complaints  at  Eome ;  he 
was  to  take  possession,  by  virtue  of  hereditary 
right  and  a  little  fighting,  of  the  kingdom  of 
Naples ;  and  from  that  convenient  starting-point 
he  was  to  set  out  on  the  conquest  of  the  Turks, 
who  were  partly  to  be  cut  to  pieces  and  partly 
converted  to  the  faith  of  Christ.  It  was  a  scheme 
that  seemed  to  befit  the  Most  Christian  King,  head 
of  a  nation  which,  thanks  to  the  devices  of  a  subtle 
Louis  the  Eleventh,  who  had  died  in  much  fright 
as  to  his  personal  prospects  ten  years  before,  had 
become  the  strongest  of  Christian  monarchies ;  and 
this  antitype  of  Cyrus  and  Charlemagne  was  no 
other  than  the  son  of  that  subtle  Louis,  —  the 
young  Charles  the  Eighth  of  France. 

Surely,  on  a  general  statement,  hardly  anything 
could  seem  more  grandiose,  or  fitter  to  revive  in 
the  breasts  of  men  the  memory  of  great  dispensa- 
tions by  which  new  strata  had  been  laid  in  the 
history  of  mankind.  And  there  was  a  very  widely 
spread  conviction  that  the  advent  of  the  French 
king  and  his  army  into  Italy  was  one  of  those 
events  at  which  marble  statues  might  well  be 
believed  to  perspire,  phantasmal  fiery  warriors  to 
fight  in  the  air,  and  quadrupeds  to  bring  forth 
monstrous  births,  —  that  it  did  not  belong  to  the 
usual  order  of  Providence,  but  was  in  a  peculiar 
sense  the  work  of  God.  It  was  a  conviction  that 
rested  less  on  the  necessarily  momentous  character 
of  a  powerful  foreign  invasion  than  on  certain  moral 
emotions  to  which  the  aspect  of  the  times  gave  the 
form  of  presentiments,  —  emotions  which  had  found 
a  very  remarkable  utterance  in  the  voice  of  a  sin- 
gle man. 

That  man  was  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  Prior  of 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST.       s 

the  Dominican  convent  of  San  Marco  in  Florence. 
On  a  September  morning,  when  men's  ears  were 
ringing  with  the  news  that  the  French  army  had 
entered  Italy,  he  had  preached  in  the  Cathedral 
of  Florence  from  the  te.\t,  "  Behold  I,  even  I,  do 
bring  a  flood  of  waters  upon  the  earth. "  He 
believed  it  was  by  supreme  guidance  that  he 
had  reached  just  so  far  in  his  exposition  of  Genesis 
the  previous  Lent;  and  he  believed  the  "flood  of 
water  "  —  emblem  at  once  of  avenging  wrath  and 
purifying  mercy  —  to  be  the  divinely  indicated 
symbol  of  the  French  army.  His  audience,  some 
of  whom  were  held  to  be  among  the  choicest  spirits 
of  the  age,  —  the  most  cultivated  men  in  the  most 
cultivated  of  Italian  cities,  —  believed  it  too,  and 
listened  with  shuddering  awe.  For  this  man  had 
a  power  rarely  paralleled,  of  impressing  his  beliefs 
on  others,  and  of  swaying  very  various  minds. 
And  as  long  as  four  years  ago  he  had  proclaimed 
from  the  chief  pulpit  of  Florence  that  a  scourge 
was  about  to  descend  on  Italy,  and  that  by  this 
scourge  the  Church  was  to  be  purified.  Savonarola 
appeared  to  believe,  and  his  hearers  more  or  less 
waveringly  believed,  that  he  had  a  mission  like 
that  of  the  Hebrew  prophets,  and  that  the  Flor- 
entines among  whom  his  message  was  delivered 
were  in  some  sense  a  second  chosen  people.  The 
idea  of  prophetic  gifts  was  not  a  remote  one  in 
that  age :  seers  of  visions,  circumstantial  heralds 
of  things  to  be,  were  far  from  uncommon  either 
outside  or  inside  the  cloister;  but  this  very  fact 
made  Savonarola  stand  out  the  more  conspicuously 
as  a  grand  exception.  "While  in  others  the  gift  of 
]jrt)phecy  was  very  much  like  a  farthing  candle 
illuminating  small  corners  of  human  destiny  with 


6  ROMOLA. 

prophetic  gossip,  in  Savonarola  it  was  like  a  miglity 
beacon  shining  far  out  for  the  warning  and  guid- 
ance of  men.  And  to  some  of  the  soberest  minds 
the  supernatural  character  of  his  insight  into  the 
future  gathered  a  strong  attestation  from  the  pe- 
culiar conditions  of  the  age. 

At  the  close  of  1492,  the  year  in  which  Lorenzo 
de'  Medici  died  and  Tito  Melema  came  as  a  wan- 
derer to  Florence,  Italy  was  enjoying  a  peace  and 
prosperity  unthreatened  by  any  near  and  definite 
danger.  There  was  no  fear  of  famine,  for  the  sea- 
sons had  been  plenteous  in  corn  and  wine  and  oil ; 
new  palaces  had  been  rising  in  all  fair  cities,  new 
villas  on  pleasant  slopes  and  summits ;  and  the 
men  who  had  more  than  their  share  of  these  good 
things  were  in  no  fear  of  the  larger  number  who 
had  less.  For  the  citizens'  armour  was  getting 
rusty,  and  populations  seemed  to  have  become 
tame,  licking  the  hands  of  masters  who  paid  for  a 
ready-made  army  when  they  wanted  it,  as  they 
paid  for  goods  of  Smyrna.  Even  the  fear  of  the 
Turk  had  ceased  to  be  active,  and  the  Pope  found 
it  more  immediately  profitable  to  accept  bribes  from 
him  for  a  little  prospective  poisoning  than  to  form 
plans  either  for  conquering  or  for  converting  him. 

Altogether  this  world,  with  its  partitioned  em- 
pire and  its  roomy  universal  Church,  seemed  to  be 
a  handsome  establishment  for  the  few  who  were 
lucky  or  wise  enough  to  reap  the  advantages  of 
human  folly, —  a  world  in  which  lust  and  obscenity, 
lying  and  treachery,  oppression  and  murder,  were 
pleasant,  useful,  and  when  properly  managed,  not 
dangerous.  And  as  a  sort  of  fringe  or  adornment 
to  the  substantial  delights  of  tyranny,  avarice,  and 
lasciviousness,   there  was   the  patronage  of  polite 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST.       7 

learning  and  the  fine  arts,  so  that  flattery  could 
always  be  had  in  the  choicest  Latin  to  be  com- 
manded at  that  time,  and  sublime  artists  were  at 
hand  to  paint  the  holy  and  the  unclean  with  impar- 
tial skill.  The  Church,  it  was  said,  had  never 
been  so  disgraced  in  its  head,  had  never  shown  so 
few  signs  of  renovating,  vital  belief  in  its  lower 
members  ;  nevertheless  it  was  much  more  prosper- 
ous than  in  some  past  days.  The  heavens  were 
fair  and  smiling  above ;  and  below  there  were  no 
signs  of  earthquake. 

Yet  at  that  time,  as  we  have  seen,  there  was  a 
man  in  Florence  who  for  two  years  and  more  had 
been  preaching  that  a  scourge  was  at  hand ;  that 
the  world  was  certainly  not  framed  for  the  lasting 
convenience  of  hypocrites,  libertines,  and  oppres- 
sors. From  the  midst  of  those  smiling  heavens  he 
had  seen  a  sword  hanging  —  the  sword  of  God's 
justice  —  which  was  speedily  to  descend  with  puri- 
fying punishment  on  the  Church  and  the  world. 
In  brilliant  FeiTara,  seventeen  years  before,  the 
contradiction  between  men's  lives  and  their  pro- 
fessed beliefs  had  pressed  upon  him  with  a  force 
that  had  been  enough  to  destroy  his  appetite  for 
the  world,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-three  had 
driven  him  into  the  cloister.  He  believed  that 
God  had  committed  to  the  Church  the  sacred  lamp 
of  truth  for  the  guidance  and  salvation  of  men, 
and  he  saw  that  the  Church,  in  its  corruption,  had 
become  a  sepulchre  to  hide  the  lamp.  As  the  years 
went  on  scandals  increased  and  multiplied,  and 
hypocrisy  seemed  to  have  given  place  to  impu- 
dence. Had  the  world,  then,  ceased  to  have  a 
righteous  Ruler?  Was  the  Church  finally  for- 
saken ?     No,  assuredly :  in  the  Sacred  Book  there 


8  ROMOLA. 

was  a  record  of  the  past  in  which  might  be  seen  as 
in  a  glass  what  would  be  in  the  days  to  come,  and 
the  book  showed  that  when  the  wickedness  of  the 
chosen  people,  type  of  the  Christian  Church,  had 
become  crying,  the  judgments  of  God  had  descended 
on  them.  Nay,  reason  itself  declared  that  ven- 
geance was  imminent,  for  what  else  would  suifice 
to  turn  men  from  their  obstinacy  in  evil  ?  And 
unless  the  Church  w^ere  reclaimed,  how  could  the 
promises  be  fulfilled,  that  the  heathens  should  be 
converted  and  the  whole  world  become  subject  to 
the  one  true  law  ?  He  had  seen  his  belief  reflected 
in  visions,  —  a  mode  of  seeing  which  had  been  fre- 
quent with  him  from  his  youth  up. 

But  the  real  force  of  demonstration  for  Girolamo 
Savonarola  lay  in  his  own  burning  indignation  at 
the  sight  of  wrong;  in  his  fervent  belief  in  an 
Unseen  Justice  that  would  put  an  end  to  the 
wrong,  and  in  an  Unseen  Purity,  to  which  lying 
and  uncleanness  were  an  abomination.  To  his 
ardent,  power-loving  soul,  believing  in  great  ends, 
and  longing  to  achieve  those  ends  by  the  exertion 
of  its  own  strong  will,  the  faith  in  a  supreme  and 
righteous  Euler  became  one  with  the  faith  in  a 
speedy  divine  interposition  that  would  punish  and 
reclaim. 

Meanwhile,  under  that  splendid  masquerade  of 
dignities  sacred  and  secular  which  seemed  to  make 
the  life  of  lucky  Churchmen  and  princely  families 
so  luxurious  and  amusing,  there  were  certain  con- 
ditions at  work  which  slowly  tended  to  disturb  the 
general  festivity.  Ludovico  Sforza,  — copious  in 
gallantry,  splendid  patron  of  an  incomparable 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  —  holding  the  ducal  crown  of 
Milan  in  his  grasp,  and  wanting  to  put  it  on  his 


OF  THE 
WWERSfTY  OF  ILUNOiS 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST.  9 

own  head  rather  than  let  it  rest  on  that  of  a  feeble 
nephew  who  would  take  very  little  to  poison  him, 
was  much  afraid  of  the  Spanish-born  old  King 
Ferdinand  and  the  Crown  Prince  Alfonso  of 
-Naples,  who,  not  liking  cruelty  and  treachery 
which  were  useless  to  themselves,  objected  to  the 
poisoning  of  a  near  relative  for  the  advantage  of 
a  Lombard  usurper ;  the  royalties  of  Naples  again 
were  afraid  of  their  suzerain.  Pope  Alexander 
Borgia;  all  three  were  anxiously  watching  Flor- 
ence, lest  with  its  midway  territory  it  should 
determine  the  game  by  underhand  backing;  and 
all  four,  with  every  small  state  in  Italy,  were 
afraid  of  Venice,  —  Venice  the  cautious,  the  stable, 
and  the  strong,  that  wanted  to  stretch  its  arms  not 
only  along  both  sides  of  the  Adriatic  but  across  to 
the  ports  of  the  western  coast. 

Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  it  was  thought,  did  much 
to  prevent  the  fatal  outbreak  of  such  jealousies, 
keeping  up  the  old  Florentine  alliance  with  Naples 
and  the  Pope,  and  yet  persuading  Milan  that  the 
alliance  was  for  the  general  advantage.  But  young 
Piero  de'  Medici's  rash  vanity  had  quickly  nulli- 
fied the  effect  of  his  father's  wary  policy,  and 
Lndovico  Sforza,  roused  to  suspicion  of  a  league 
against  him,  thought  of  a  move  which  would 
checkmate  his  adversaries :  he  determined  to  in- 
vite the  French  king  to  march  into  Italy,  and  as 
heir  of  the  house  of  Anjou,  take  possession  of 
Naples.  Ambassadors  —  "  orators, "  as  they  were 
called  in  those  haranguing  times  —  went  and  came  ; 
a  recusant  cardinal,  determined  not  to  acknow- 
ledge a  Pope  elected  by  bribery  (and  his  own  par- 
ticular enemy),  went  and  came  also,  and  seconded 
the  invitation  with  hot  rhetoric;  and  the  young 


10  ROMOLA. 

king  seemed  to  lend  a  willing  ear.  So  that  in 
1493  the  rumour  spread  and  became  louder  and 
louder  that  Charles  the  Eighth  of  France  was 
about  to  cross  the  Alps  with  a  mighty  army ;  and 
the  Italian  populations,  accustomed,  since  Italy 
had  ceased  to  be  the  heart  of  the  Eoman  empire, 
to  look  for  an  arbitrator  from  afar,  began  vaguely 
to  regard  his  coming  as  a  means  of  avenging  their 
wrongs  and  redressing  their  grievances. 

And  in  that  rumour  Savonarola  had  heard  the 
assurance  that  his  prophecy  was  being  verified. 
What  was  it  that  filled  the  ears  of  the  prophets 
of  old  but  the  distant  tread  of  foreign  armies, 
coming  to  do  the  work  of  justice  ?  He  no  longer 
looked  vaguely  to  the  horizon  for  the  coming 
storm :  he  pointed  to  the  rising  cloud.  The 
French  army  was  that  new  deluge  which  was  to 
purify  the  earth  from  iniquity ;  the  French  king, 
Charles  the  Eighth,  was  the  instrument  elected 
by  God,  as  Cyrus  had  been  of  old,  and  all  men 
who  desired  good  rather  than  evil  were  to  re- 
joice in  his  coming.  For  the  scourge  would  fall 
destructively  on  the  impenitent  alone.  Let  any 
city  of  Italy,  let  Florence  above  all,  —  Florence 
beloved  of  God,  since  to  its  ear  the  warning 
voice  had  been  specially  sent,  —  repent  and  turn 
from  its  ways,  like  Nineveh  of  old,  and  the  storm- 
cloud  would  roll  over  it  and  leave  only  refreshing 
raindrops. 

Fra  Girolamo's  word  was  powerful ;  yet  now  that 
the  new  Cyrus  had  already  been  three  months  in 
Italy,  and  was  not  far  from  the  gates  of  Florence, 
his  presence  was  expected  there  with  mixed  feel- 
ings, in  which  fear  and  distrust  certainly  predomi- 
nated.    At  present  it  was  not  understood  that  he 


UBRARV 

OF  THE 

UMIVERSra  OF  lUlNOIS 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST.  ii 

had  redressed  any  grievances ;  and  the  Florentines 
clearly  had  nothing  to  thank  him  for.  He  held  their 
strong  frontier  fortresses,  which  Piero  de'  Medici 
had  given  up  to  him  without  securing  any  hon- 
ourable terms  in  return ;  he  had  done  nothing  to 
quell  the  alarming  revolt  of  Pisa,  which  had  been 
encouraged  by  his  presence  to  throw  off  the  Floren- 
tine yoke ;  and  "  orators, "  even  with  a  prophet  at 
their  head,  could  win  no  assurance  from  him,  ex- 
cept that  he  would  settle  everything  when  he  was 
once  within  the  walls  of  Florence.  Still,  there 
was  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  the  exasper- 
ating Piero  de'  Medici  had  been  fairly  pelted  out 
for  the  ignominious  surrender  of  the  fortresses,  and 
in  that  act  of  energy  the  spirit  of  the  Eepublic 
had  recovered  some  of  its  old  fire. 

The  preparations  for  the  equivocal  guest  were 
not  entirely  those  of  a  city  resigned  to  submission. 
Behind  the  bright  drapery  and  banners  symbolical 
of  joy,  there  were  preparations  of  another  sort 
made  with  common  accord  by  government  and 
people.  Well  hidden  within  walls  there  were 
hired  soldiers  of  the  Eepublic,  hastily  called  in 
from  the  surrounding  districts ;  there  were  old 
arms  duly  furbished,  and  sharp  tools  and  heavy 
cudgels  laid  carefully  at  hand,  to  be  snatched  up 
on  short  notice ;  there  were  excellent  boards  and 
stakes  to  form  barricades  upon  occasion,  and  a 
good  supply  of  stones  to  make  a  surprising  hail 
from  the  upper  windows.  Above  all,  there  were 
people  very  strongly  in  the  humour  for  fighting 
any  personage  who  might  be  supposed  to  have 
designs  of  hectoring  over  them,  they  having  lately 
tasted  that  new  pleasure  with  much  relish.  This 
humour  was  not  diminished  by  the  sight  of  occa- 


12  ROMOLA. 

sional  parties  of  Frenchmen,  coming  beforehand  to 
choose  their  quarters,  with  a  hawk,  perhaps,  on 
their  left  wrist,  and,  metaphorically  speaking,  a 
piece  of  chalk  in  their  right  hand  to  mark  Italian 
doors  withal ;  especially  as  creditable  historians 
imply  that  many  sons  of  France  were  at  that  time 
characterized  by  something  approaching  to  a  swag- 
ger, which  must  have  whetted  the  Florentine  appe- 
tite for  a  little  stone-throwing. 

And   this  was    the  temper  of   Florence   on  the 
morning  of  the  17th  of  November,  1494. 


CHAPTEE    II. 

THE    PRISONERS. 

The  sky  was  gray,  but  that  made  little  difference 
in  the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  which  was  covered  with 
its  holiday  sky  of  blue  drapery,  and  its  constel- 
lations of  yellow  lilies  and  coats  of  arms.  The 
sheaves  of  banners  were  unfurled  at  the  angles  of 
the  baptistery,  but  there  was  no  carpet  yet  on  the 
steps  of  the  Duomo,  for  the  marble  was  being 
trodden  by  numerous  feet  that  were  not  at  all 
exceptional.  It  was  the  hour  of  the  Advent  ser- 
mons, and  the  very  same  reasons  which  had  flushed 
the  streets  with  holiday  colour  were  reasons  why 
the  preaching  in  the  Duomo  could  least  of  all  be 
dispensed  with. 

But  not  all  the  feet  in  the  piazza  were  hastening 
towards  the  steps.  People  of  high  and  low  degree 
were  moving  to  and  fro  with  the  brisk  pace  of  men 
who  had  errands  before  them;  groups  of  talkers 
were  thickly  scattered,  some  willing  to  be  late 
for  the  sermon,  and  others  content  not  to  hear  it 
at  all. 

The  expression  on  the  faces  of  these  apparent 
loungers  was  not  that  of  men  who  are  enjoying 
the  pleasant  laziness  of  an  opening  holiday.  Some 
were  in  close  and  eager  discussion ;  others  were 
listening  with  keen  interest  to  a  single  spokesman, 
and  yet  from  time  to  time  turned  round  with  a 


14  ROMOLA. 

scanning  glance  at  any  new  passer-by.  At  the 
corner,  looking  towards  the  Via  de'  Cerretani  — 
just  where  the  artificial  rainbow  light  of  the  piazza 
ceased,  and  the  gray  morning  fell  on  the  sombre 
stone  houses  —  there  was  a  remarkable  cluster  of 
the  working  people,  most  of  them  bearing  on  their 
dress  or  persons  the  signs  of  their  daily  labour, 
and  almost  all  of  them  carrying  some  weapon,  or 
some  tool  which  might  serve  as  a  weapon  upon 
occasion.  Standing  in  the  gray  light  of  the  street, 
with  bare  brawny  arms  and  soiled  garments,  they 
made  all  the  more  striking  the  transition  from  the 
brightness  of  the  piazza.  They  were  listening  to 
the  thin  notary,  Ser  Cioni,  who  had  just  paused  on 
his  way  to  the  Duomo.  His  biting  words  could 
get  only  a  contemptuous  reception  two  years  and  a 
half  before  in  the  Mercato,  but  now  he  spoke  with 
the  more  complacent  humour  of  a  man  whose  party 
is  uppermost,  and  who  is  conscious  of  some  influ- 
ence with  the  people. 

"  Never  talk  to  me, "  he  was  saying,  in  his  inci- 
sive voice,  "  never  talk  to  rne  of  bloodthirsty  Swiss 
or  fierce  French  infantry :  they  might  as  well  be 
in  the  narrow  passes  of  the  mountains  as  in  our 
streets ;  and  peasants  have  destroyed  the  finest 
armies  of  our  condottieri  in  time  past,  when  they 
had  once  got  them  between  steep  precipices.  I 
tell  you,  Florentines  need  be  afraid  of  no  army  in 
their  own  streets.  " 

"  That 's  true,  Ser  Cioni, "  said  a  man  whose 
arms  and  hands  were  discoloured  -by  crimson  dye, 
which  looked  like  blood-stains,  and  who  had  a 
small  hatchet  stuck  in  his  belt ;  "  and  those 
French  cavaliers,  who  came  in  squaring  them- 
selves in  their  smart  doublets  the  other  day,  saw 


THE  PRISONERS.  15 

a  sample  of  the  dinner  we  could  serve  up  for  them. 
I  was  carrying  my  cloth  in  Oguissanti,  when  T  saw 
my  fine  Messeri  going  by,  looking  round  as  if  they 
thought  the  houses  of  the  Vespucci  and  the  Agli  a 
poor  pick  of  lodgings  for  them,  and  eying  us  Flor- 
entines, like  top-knotted  cocks  as  they  are,  as  if 
they  pitied  us  because  we  didn't  know  how  to 
strut.  '  Yes,  my  fine  Galli, '  says  I,  '  stick  out 
your  stomachs  ;  I  've  got  a  meat-axe  in  my  belt  that 
will  go  inside  you  all  the  easier ; '  when  presently 
the  old  cow  lowed, ^  and  I  knew  something  had  hap- 
pened —  no  matter  what.  So  I  threw  my  cloth  in 
at  the  first  doorway,  and  took  hold  of  my  meat-axe 
and  ran  after  my  fine  cavaliers  towards  the  Yigna 
Nuova.  And  '  What  is  it,  Guccio  ? '  said  I,  when 
he  came  up  with  me.  *  I  think  it 's  the  Medici 
coming  back, '  said  Guccio.  Bemhe  !  I  expected  so ! 
And  up  we  reared  a  barricade,  and  the  Frenchmen 
looked  behind  and  saw  themselves  in  a  trap ;  and 
up  comes  a  good  swarm  of  our  Ciompi,^  and  one  of 
them  with  a  big  scythe  he  had  in  his  hand  mowed 
off  one  of  the  fine  cavalier's  feathers:  it's  true! 
And  the  lasses  peppered  a  few  stones  down  to 
frighten  them.  However,  Piero  de'  Medici  wasn't 
come  after  all ;  and  it  was  a  pity,  for  we  'd  have 
left  him  neither  legs  nor  wings  to  go  away  with 
again. " 

"  Well  spoken,  Oddo, "  said  a  young  butcher,  with 
his  knife  at  his  belt;  "and  it's  my  belief  Piero 
will  be  a  good  while  before  he  wants  to  come  back, 
for  he  looked  as  frightened  as  a  hunted  chicken, 


'  "  Tm  rnrra  mtif/Iin,"  wns  the  phrase  for  the  sonndinjj  of  tlie 
great  bell  in  the  tower  of  the  Pala/.zo  Vecchio. 

2  The  poorer  artisans  connected  with  the  wool  trade,  —  wool- 
beaters,  carders,  washers,  etc. 


1 6  ROMOLA. 

when  we  hustled  and  pelted  him  in  the  piazza. 
He  's  a  coward,  else  he  might  have  made  a  better 
stand  when  he  'd  got  his  horsemen.  But  we  '11 
swallow  no  Medici  any  more,  whatever  else  the 
French  king  wants  to  make  us  swallow.  " 

"  But  I  like  not  those  French  cannon  they  talk 
of,"  said  Goro,  none  the  less  fat  for  two  years' 
additional  grievances.  "  San  Giovanni  defend  us  ! 
If  Messer  Domeneddio  means  so  well  by  us  as 
your  Frate  says  he  does,  Ser  Cioni,  why  shouldn't 
he  have  sent  the  French  another  way  to  Naples  ?  " 

"  Ay,  Goro, "  said  the  dyer ;  "  that 's  a  question 
worth  putting.  Thou  art  not  such  a  pumpkin- 
head  as  I  took  thee  for.  Why,  they  miglit  have 
gone  to  Naples  by  Bologna,  eh,  Ser  Cioni  ?  or  if 
they'd  gone  to  Arezzo  —  we  wouldn't  have 
minded  their  going  to  Arezzo. " 

"  Fools !  It  will  be  for  the  good  and  glory  of 
Florence, "  Ser  Cioni  began.  But  he  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  exclamation,  "  Look  there !  "  which 
burst  from  several  voices  at  once,  while  the  faces 
were  all  turned  to  a  party  who  were  advancing 
along  the  Via  de'  Cerretani. 

"  It 's  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  and  one  of  the  French 
noblemen  who  are  in  his  house, "  said  Ser  Cioni,  in 
some  contempt  at  this  interruption.  "  He  pretends 
to  look  well  satisfied,  —  that  deep  Tornabuoni,  — 
but  he  's  a  Medicean  in  his  heart :  mind  that.  " 

The  advancing  party  was  rather  a  brilliant  one, 
for  there  was  not  only  the  distinguished  presence 
of  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  and  tlirC  splendid  costume 
of  the  Frenchman  with  his  elaborately  displayed 
white  linen  and  gorgeous  embroidery ;  there  were 
two  other  Florentines  of  high  birth  in  handsome 
dresses  donned  for  the  coming  procession,  and  on 


THE   PRISONERS.  17 

the  left  hand  of  the  Frenchman  was  a  figure  that 
was  not  to  be  eclipsed  by  any  amount  of  intention 
or  brocade,  —  a  figure  we  have  often  seen  before. 
He  wore  nothing  but  black,  for  he  was  in  mourn- 
ing ;  but  the  black  was  presently  to  be  covered  by 
a  red  mantle,  for  he  too  was  to  walk  in  procession 
a^  Latin  Secretary  to  the  Ten.  Tito  Melema  had 
become  conspicuously  serviceable  in  the  inter- 
course with  the  French  guests,  from  his  famil- 
iarity with  Southern  Italy,  and  his  readiness  in 
the  French  tongue,  which  he  had  spoken  in  his 
early  youth ;  and  he  had  paid  more  than  one  visit 
to  the  French  camp  at  Signa.  The  lustre  of  good 
fortune  was  upon  him ;  he  was  smiling,  listening, 
and  explaining,  with  his  usual  graceful  unpreten- 
tious ease,  and  only  a  very  keen  eye  bent  on  study- 
ing him  could  have  marked  a  certain  amount  of 
change  in  him  which  was  not  to  be  accounted  for 
by  the  lapse  of  eighteen  months.  It  was  that 
change  which  comes  from  the  final  departure  of 
moral  youthfulness,  —  from  the  distinct  self-con- 
scious adoption  of  a  part  in  life.  The  lines  of 
the  face  were  as  soft  as  ever,  the  eyes  as  pellucid ; 
but  something  was  gone, —  something  as  indefinable 
as  the  changes  in  the  morning  twilight. 

The  Frenchman  was  gathering  instructions  con- 
cerning ceremonial  before  riding  back  to  Signa, 
and  now  he  was  going  to  have  a  final  survey  of 
the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  where  the  royal  procession 
was  to  pause  for  religious  purposes.  The  distin- 
guished party  attracted  the  notice  of  all  eyes  as  it 
entered  the  piazza,  but  the  gaze  was  not  entirely 
cordial  and  admiring ;  there  were  remarks  not  alto- 
gether allusive  and  mysterious  to  the  Frenchman's 
hoof-shaped  shoes,  —  delicate  flattery  of  royal  super- 

TOL.  II. —  2 


1 8  ROMOLA. 

fluity  in  toes ;  and  there  was  no  care  that  certain 
snarlings  at  "  Mediceans"  should  be  strictly  inau- 
dible. But  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni  possessed  that 
power  of  dissembling  annoyance  which  is  de- 
manded in  a  man  who  courts  popularity ;  and 
Tito,  besides  his  natural  disposition  to  overcome 
ill-will  by  good-humour,  had  the  unimpassioned 
feeling  of  the  alien  towards  names  and  details  that 
move  the  deepest  passions  of  the  native. 

Arrived  where  they  could  get  a  good  oblique 
view  of  the  Duomo,  the  party  paused.  The  fes- 
toons and  devices  placed  over  the  central  doorway 
excited  some  demur,  and  Tornabuoni  beckoned  to 
Piero  di  Cosimo,  who,  as  was  usual  with  him  at 
this  hour,  was  lounging  in  front  of  Nello's  shop. 
There  was  soon  an  animated  discussion,  and  it 
became  highly  amusing  from  the  Frenchman's 
astonishment  at  Piero 's  odd  pungency  of  state- 
ment, which  Tito  translated  literally.  Even 
snarling  on-lookers  became  curious,  and  their 
faces  began  to  wear  the  half-smiling,  half-humi- 
liated expression  of  people  who  are  not  within 
hearing  of  the  joke  which  is  producing  infectious 
laughter.  It  was  a  delightful  moment  for  Tito, 
for  he  was  the  only  one  of  the  party  who  could 
have  made  so  amusing  an  interpreter ;  and  with- 
out any  disposition  to  triumphant  self-gratulation 
he  revelled  in  the  sense  that  he  was  an  object  of 
liking,  — he  basked  in  approving  glances.  The 
rainbow  light  fell  about  the  laughing  group,  and 
the  grave  church-goers  had  all  disappeared  within 
the  walls.  It  seemed  as  if  the  piazza  had  been 
decorated  for  a  real  Florentine  holiday. 

Meanwhile  in  the  gray  light  of  the  unadorned 
streets  there  were  on-comers  who  made  no  show  of 


THE  PRISONERS.  19 

linen  and  brocade,  and  whose  humour  was  far  from 
merry.  Here,  too,  the  French  dress  and  hoofed 
shoes  were  conspicuous,  but  they  were  being 
pressed  upon  by  a  larger  and  larger  number  of 
non-admiring  Florentines.  In  the  van  of  the 
crowd  were  three  men  in  scanty  clothing ;  each 
had  his  hands  bound  together  by  a  cord,  and  a 
rope  was  fastened  round  his  neck  and  body,  in 
such  a  way  that  he  who  held  the  extremity  of  the 
rope  might  easily  check  any  rebellious  movement 
by  the  threat  of  throttling.  The  men  who  held 
the  ropes  were  French  soldiers,  and  by  broken 
Italian  phrases  and  strokes  from  the  knotted  end 
of  the  rope,  they  from  time  to  time  stimulated 
their  prisoners  to  beg.  Two  of  them  were  obedi- 
ent, and  to  every  Florentine  they  had  encountered 
had  held  out  their  bound  hands  and  said  in  piteous 
tones,  — 

"  For  the  love  of  God  and  the  Holy  Madonna, 
give  us  something  towards  our  ransom !  We  are 
Tuscans  :  we  were  made  prisoners  in  Lunigiana.  " 

But  the  third  man  remained  obstinately  silent 
under  all  the  strokes  from  the  knotted  cord.  He 
was  very  different  in  aspect  from  his  two  fellow- 
prisoners.  They  were  young  and  hardy,  and,  in 
the  scant  clothing  which  the  avarice  of  their  cap- 
tors had  left  them,  looked  like  vulgar,  sturdy  men- 
dicants. But  he  had  passed  the  boundary  of  old 
age,  and  could  hardly  be  less  than  four  or  five  and 
sixty.  His  beard,  which  had  grown  long  in  neg- 
lect, and  the  hair  which  fell  thick  and  straight 
round  his  baldness,  were  nearly  white.  His  thick- 
set figure  was  still  firm  and  upright,  though  ema- 
ciated, and  seemed  to  express  energy  in  spite  of 
age,  —  an  expression  that  was  partly  carried  out  in 


20  ROMOLA. 

the  dark  eyes  and  strong  dark  eyebrows,  which 
had  a  strangely  isolated  intensity  of  colour  in  the 
midst  of  his  yellow,  bloodless,  deep-wrinkled  face 
with  its  lank  gray  hairs.  And  yet  there  was  some- 
thing fitful  in  the  eyes  which  contradicted  the 
occasional  flash  of  energy ;  after  looking  round 
with  quick  fierceness  at  windows  and  faces,  they 
fell  again  with  a  lost  and  wandering  look.  But 
his  lips  were  motionless,  and  he  held  his  hands 
resolutely  down.     He  would  not  beg. 

This  sight  had  been  witnessed  by  the  Floren- 
tines with  growing  exasperation.  Many  standing 
at  their  doors  or  passing  quietly  along  had  at  once 
given  money,  —  some  in  half-automatic  response  to 
an  appeal  in  the  name  of  God,  others  in  that  un- 
questioning awe  of  the  French  soldiery  which  had 
been  created  by  the  reports  of  their  cruel  warfare, 
and  on  which  the  French  themselves  counted  as  a 
guarantee  of  immunity  in  their  acts  of  insolence. 
But  as  the  group  had  proceeded  farther  into  the 
heart  of  the  city,  that  compliance  had  gradually 
disappeared,  and  the  soldiers  found  themselves 
escorted  by  a  gathering  troop  of  men  and  boys, 
who  kept  up  a  chorus  of  exclamations  sufficiently 
intelligible  to  foreign  ears  without  any  interpreter. 
The  soldiers  themselves  began  to  dislike  their  posi- 
tion, for,  with  a  strong  inclination  to  use  their 
weapons,  they  were  checked  by  the  necessity  for 
keeping  a  secure  hold  on  their  prisoners,  and  they 
were  now  hurrying  along  in  the  hope  of  finding 
shelter  in  a  hostelry. 

"  French  dogs ! "  "  Bullock-feet ! "  "  Snatch  their 
pikes  from  them  !  "  "  Cut  the  cords  and  make  them 
run  for  their  prisoners.  They  '11  run  as  fast  as 
geese,  —  don't  you  see  they  're  web-footed  ? "    These 


THE  PRISONERS.  21 

were  the  cries  which  the  soldiers  vaguely  under- 
stood to  be  jeers,  and  probably  threats.  But  every 
one  seemed  disposed  to  give  invitations  of  this 
spirited  kind  rather  than  to  act  upon  them. 

"  Santiddio !  here  's  a  sight !  "  said  the  dyer,  as 
soon  as  he  had  divined  the  meaning  of  the  advan- 
cing tumult,  "  and  the  fools  da  nothing  but  hoot 
Come  along !  "  he  added,  snatching  his  axe  from 
his  belt,  and  running  to  join  the  crowd,  followed 
by  the  butcher  and  all  the  rest  of  his  companions, 
except  Goro,  who  hastily  retreated  up  a  narrow 
passage. 

The  sight  of  the  dyer,  running  forward  with 
blood-red  arms  and  axe  uplifted,  and  with  his 
cluster  of  rough  companions  behind  him,  had  a 
stimulating  efl'ect  on  the  crowd.  Not  that  he  did 
anything  else  than  pass  beyond  the  soldiers  and 
thrust  himself  well  among  his  fellow-citizens, 
flourishing  his  axe ;  but  he  served  as  a  stirring 
symbol  of  street-fighting,  like  the  waving  of  a 
well-known  gonfalon.  And  the  first  sign  that 
fire  was  ready  to  burst  out  was  something  as 
rapid  as  a  little  leaping  tongue  of  flame :  it  was 
an  act  of  the  conjurer's  impish  lad  LoUo,  who 
was  dancing  and  jeering  in  front  of  the  ingenuous 
boys  that  made  the  majority  of  the  crowd.  LoUo 
had  no  great  compa.ssion  for  the  prisoners,  but 
being  conscious  of  an  excellent  knife  which  was 
his  unfailing  companion,  it  had  seemed  to  him 
from  the  first  that  to  jump  forward,  cut  a  rope, 
and  leap  back  again  before  the  soldier  who  held 
it  could  use  his  weapon,  would  be  an  amusing  and 
dexterous  piece  of  mischief.  And  now,  when  the 
people  began  to  hoot  and  jostle  more  vigorously, 
Lollo   felt  that  his  moment  was  come, — he  was 


22  ROMOLA. 

close  to  the  eldest  prisoner :  in  an  instant  he  had 
cut  the  cord. 

"  Run,  old  one !  "  he  piped  in  the  prisoner's  ear, 
as  soon  as  the  cord  was  in  two ;  and  himself  set  the 
example  of  running  as  if  he  were  helped  along  with 
wings,  like  a  scared  fowl. 

The  prisoner's  sensations  were  not  too  slow  for 
him  to  seize  the  opportunity :  the  idea  of  escape 
had  been  continually  present  with  him,  and  he 
had  gathered  fresh  hope  from  the  temper  of  the 
crowd.  He  ran  at  once;  but  his  speed  would 
hardly  have  sufficed  for  him  if  the  Florentines  had 
not  instantaneously  rushed  between  him  and  his 
captor.  He  ran  on  into  the  piazza  ;  but  he  quickly 
heard  the  tramp  of  feet  behind  him,  for  the  other 
two  prisoners  had  been  released,  and  the  soldiers 
were  struggling  and  fighting  their  way  after  them, 
in  such  tardigrade  fashion  as  their  hoof-shaped 
shoes  would  allow,  —  impeded,  but  not  very  reso- 
lutely attacked,  by  the  people.  One  of  the  two 
younger  prisoners  turned  up  the  Borgo  di  San 
Lorenzo,  and  thus  made  a  partial  diversion  of 
the  hubbub ;  but  the  main  struggle  was  still 
towards  the  piazza,  where  all  eyes  were  turned 
on  it  with  alarmed  curiosity.  The  cause  could 
not  be  precisely  guessed,  for  the  French  dress  was 
screened  by  the  impeding  crowd. 

"  An  escape  of  prisoners, "  said  Lorenzo  Torna- 
buoni,  as  he  and  his  party  turned  round  just 
against  the  steps  of  the  Duomo,  and  saw  a  pris- 
oner rushing  by  them.  "  The  people  are  not  con- 
tent with  having  emptied  the  Bargello  the  other 
day.  If  there  is  no  other  authority  in  sight  they 
must  fall  on  the  sbirri  and  secure  freedom  to 
thieves.  Ah !  there  is  a  French  soldier :  that  is 
more  serious." 


OF  THE 
UNlYERSnrV  OF  iUJNOIS 


THE  PRISONERS.  23 

The  soldier  he  saw  was  struggling  along  on  the 
north  side  of  the  piazza,  but  the  object  of  his  pur- 
suit had  taken  the  other  direction.  That  object 
was  the  eldest  prisoner,  who  had  wheeled  round 
the  baptistery  and  was  running  towards  the  Duomo, 
determined  to  take  refuge  in  that  sanctuary  rather 
than  trust  to  his  speed.  But  in  mounting  the 
steps,  his  foot  received  a  shock ;  he  was  precipi- 
tated towards  the  group  of  signori,  whose  backs 
were  turned  to  him,  and  was  only  able  to  recover 
his  balance  as  he  clutched  one  of  them  by  the 
arm. 

It  was  Tito  Melema  who  felt  that  clutch.  He 
turned  his  head,  and  saw  the  face  of  his  adoptive 
father,  Baldassarre  Calvo,  close  to  his  own. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  silent  as 
death :  Baldassarre,  with  dark  fierceness  and  a 
tightening  grip  of  the  soiled  worn  hands  on  the 
velvet-clad  arm ;  Tito,  with  cheeks  and  lips  all 
bloodless,  fascinated  by  terror.  It  seemed  a  long 
while  to  them,  — it  was  but  a  moment. 

The  first  sound  Tito  heard  was  the  short  laugh 
of  Piero  di  Cosimo,  who  stood  close  by  him,  and 
was  the  only  person  that  could  see  his  face. 

"  Ha,  ha !  I  know  what  a  ghost  should  be  now.  " 

"  This  is  another  escaped  prisoner, "  said  Lorenzo 
Tornabuoni.     "  Who  is  he,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  Some  madman,  surely, "  said  Tito. 

He  hardly  knew  how  the  words  had  come  to  his 
lips :  there  are  moments  when  our  passions  speak 
and  decide  for  us,  and  we  seem  to  stand  by  and 
wonder.  They  carry  in  them  an  inspiration  of 
crime,  that  in  one  instant  does  the  work  of  long 
premeditation. 

The  two  men  had  not  taken  their  eyes  off  each 


24  ROMOLA. 

other,  and  it  seemed  to  Tito,  when  he  had  spoken, 
that  some  magical  poison  had  darted  from  Baldas- 
sarre's  eyes,  and  that  he  felt  it  rushing  through 
his  veins.  But  the  next  instant  the  grasp  on  his 
arm  had  relaxed,  and  Baldassarre  had  disappeared 
within  the  church. 


CHAPTER    III. 

AFTER-THOUGHTS. 

"  You  are  easily  frightened,  though, "  said  Piero, 
with  another  scornful  laugh.  "  My  portrait  is  not 
as  good  as  the  original.  But  the  old  fellow  had  a 
tiger  look  :  I  must  go  into  the  Duomo  and  see  him 
again.  " 

"  It  is  not  pleasant  to  be  laid  hold  of  by  a  mad- 
man, if  madman  he  be, "  said  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni, 
in  polite  excuse  of  Tito ;  "  but  perhaps  he  is  only  a 
ruffian.  We  shall  hear.  I  think  we  must  see  if 
we  have  authority  enough  to  stop  this  disturb- 
ance between  our  people  and  your  countrymen, " 
he  added,  addressing  the  Frenchman. 

They  advanced  towards  the  crowd  with  their 
swords  drawn,  all  the  quiet  spectators  making  an 
escort  for  them.  Tito  went  too :  it  was  necessary 
that  he  should  know  what  others  knew  about  Bal- 
dassarre,  and  the  first  palsy  of  terror  was  being 
succeeded  by  the  rapid  devices  to  which  mortal 
danger  will  stimulate  the  timid. 

The  rabble  of  men  and  boys,  more  inclined  to 
hoot  at  the  soldier  and  torment  him  than  to  receive 
or  inflict  any  serious  wounds,  gave  way  at  the  ap- 
proach of  signori  with  drawn  swords,  and  the 
French  soldier  was  interrogated.  He  and  his 
companions  had  simply  brought  their  prisoners 
into  the  city,  that  they  might  beg  money  for  their 


26  ROMOLA. 

ransom :  two  of  the  prisoners  were  Tuscan  soldiers 
taken  in  Lunigiana ;  the  other,  aii  elderly  man, 
was  with  a  party  of  Genoese,  with  whom  the 
French  foragers  had  come  to  blows  near  Fiviz- 
zano.  He  might  be  mad,  but  he  was  harmless. 
The  soldier  knew  no  more,  being  unable  to  under- 
stand a  word  the  old  man  said.  Tito  heard  so  far, 
but  he  was  deaf  to  everything  else  till  he  was  spe- 
cially addressed.      It  was  Tornabuoni  who  spoke. 

"  Will  you  go  back  with  us,  Melema  ?  Or  since 
Messere  is  going  off  to  Signa  now,  will  you  wisely 
follow  the  fashion  of  the  times  and  go  to  hear  the 
Frate,  who  will  be  like  the  torrent  at  its  height 
this  morning  ?  It 's  what  we  must  all  do,  you 
know,  if  we  are  to  save  our  Medicean  skins.  1 
should  go  if  I  had  the  leisure.  " 

Tito's  face  had  recovered  its  colour  now,  and  he 
could  make  an  effort  to  speak  with  gayety. 

"  Of  course  I  am  among  the  admirers  of  the 
inspired  orator, "  he  said  smilingly ;  "  but,  unfor- 
tunately, I  shall  be  occupied  with  the  Segretario 
till  the  time  of  the  procession. " 

"  /  am  going  into  the  Duomo  to  look  at  that 
savage  old  man  again, "  said  Piero. 

"  Then  have  the  charity  to  show  him  to  one  of 
the  hospitals  for  travellers,  Piero  mio, "  said  Tor- 
nabuoni. "  The  monks  may  find  out  whether  he 
wants  putting  into  a  cage.  " 

The  party  separated,  and  Tito  took  his  way  to 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  where  he  was  to  find  Barto- 
lommeo  Scala.  It  was  not  a  long  walk,  but,  for 
Tito,  it  was  stretched  out  like  the  minutes  of  our 
morning  dreams :  the  short  spaces  of  street  and 
piazza  held  memories  and  previsions  and  tortur- 
ing  fears   that   might  have  made    the  history  of 


AFTER-THOUGHTS.  27 

months.  He  felt  as  if  a  serpent  had  begun  to 
coil  round  his  limbs.  Baldassarre  living  and 
in  Florence  was  a  living  revenge,  which  would 
no  more  rest  than  a  winding  serpent  would  rest 
until  it  had  crushed  its  prey.  It  was  not  in  the 
nature  of  that  man  to  let  an  injury  pass  un- 
avenged :  his  love  and  his  hatred  were  of  that 
passionate  fervour  which  subjugates  all  the  rest  of 
the  being,  and  makes  a  man  sacrifice  himself  to 
his  passion  as  if  it  were  a  deity  to  be  worshipped 
with  self-destruction.  Baldassarre  had  relaxed  his 
hold,  and  had  disappeared.  Tito  knew  well  how 
to  interpret  that :  it  meant  that  the  vengeance  was 
to  be  studied  that  it  might  be  sure.  If  he  had  not 
uttered  those  decisive  words  "  He  is  a  madman, ' 
—  if  he  could  have  summoned  u})  the  state  of  mind, 
the  courage,  necessary  for  avowing  his  recognition 
of  Baldassarre,  —  would  not  the  risk  have  been  less  ? 
He  might  have  declared  himself  to  have  had  what 
he  believed  to  be  positive  evidence  of  Baldassarre's 
death ;  and  the  only  persons  who  could  ever  have 
had  positive  knowledge  to  contradict  him,  were 
Fra  Luca,  who  was  dead,  and  the  crew  of  the  com- 
panion galley,  who  had  brought  him  the  news  of 
the  encounter  with  the  pirates.  The  chances  were 
infinite  against  Baldassarre's  having  met  again  with 
any  one  of  that  crew,  and  Tito  thought  with  bitter- 
ness that  a  timely,  well-devised  falsehood  might 
have  saved  him  from  any  fatal  consequences.  But 
to  have  told  that  falsehood  would  have  required  per- 
fect self-command  in  the  moment  of  a  convulsive 
shock :  he  seemed  to  have  spoken  without  any  pre- 
conception :  tlie  words  had  leaped  forth  like  a  sud- 
den birtli  that  had  been  begotten  and  nourished  in 
the  darkness. 


28  ROMOLA. 

Tito  was  experiencing  that  inexorable  law  of 
human  souls  that  we  prepare  ourselves  for  sudden 
deeds  by  the  reiterated  choice  of  good  or  evil  which 
gradually  determines  character. 

There  was  but  one  chance  for  him  now ;  the 
chance  of  Baldassarre's  failure  in  finding  his  re- 
venge. And  —  Tito  grasped  at  a  thought  more 
actively  cruel  than  any  he  had  ever  encouraged 
before :  might  not  his  own  unpremeditated  words 
have  some  truth  in  them  ?  Enough  truth,  at  least, 
to  bear  him  out  in  his  denial  of  any  declaration 
Baldassarre  might  make  about  him  ?  The  old  man 
looked  strange  and  wild ;  with  his  eager  heart  and 
brain,  suffering  was  likely  enough  to  have  pro- 
duced madness.  If  it  were  so,  the  vengeance  that 
strove  to  inflict  disgrace  might  be  baffled. 

But  there  was  another  form  of  vengeance  not  to 
be  baffled  by  ingenious  lying.  Baldassarre  be- 
longed to  a  race  to  whom  the  thrust  of  the  dagger 
seems  almost  as  natural  an  impulse  as  the  outleap 
of  the  tiger's  talons.  Tito  shrank  with  shuddering 
dread  from  disgrace ;  but  he  had  also  that  physical 
dread  which  is  inseparable  from  a  soft  pleasure- 
loving  nature,  and  which  prevents  a  man  from 
meeting  wounds  and  death  as  a  welcome  relief 
from  disgrace.  His  thoughts  flew  at  once  to  some 
hidden  defensive  armour  that  might  save  him  from 
a  vengeance  which  no  subtlety  could  parry. 

He  wondered  at  the  power  of  the  passionate  fear 
that  possessed  him.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been 
smitten  with  a  blighting  disease  that  had  sud- 
denly turned  the  joyous  sense  of  young  life  into 
pain. 

There  was  still  one  resource  open  to  Tito.  He 
might  have  turned  back,  sought  Baldassarre  again. 


AFTER-THOUGHTS.  29 

confessed  everything  to  him  —  to  Eomola  —  to  all 
the  world.  But  he  never  thought  of  that.  The 
repentance  whicli  cuts  off  all  moorings  to  evil,  de- 
mands something  more  than  selfish  fear.  He  had 
no  sense  that  there  was  strength  and  safety  in 
truth;  the  only  strength  he  trusted  to  lay  in  his 
ingenuity  and  his  dissimulation.  Now  that  the 
first  shock,  which  had  called  up  the  traitorous 
signs  of  fear,  was  well  past,  he  hoped  to  be  pre- 
pared for  all  emergencies  by  cool  deceit  —  and  de- 
fensive armour. 

It  was  a  characteristic  fact  in  Tito's  experience 
at  this  crisis,  that  no  direct  measures  for  ridding 
himself  of  Baldassarre  ever  occurred  to  him.  All 
other  possibilities  passed  through  his  mind,  even 
to  his  own  flight  from  Florence ;  but  he  never 
thought  of  any  scheme  for  removing  his  enemy. 
His  dread  generated  no  active  malignity,  and  he 
would  still  have  been  glad  not  to  give  pain  to  any 
mortal.  He  had  simply  chosen  to  make  life  easy 
to  himself  —  to  carry  his  human  lot,  if  possible,  in 
such  a  way  that  it  should  pinch  him  nowhere ;  and 
the  choice  had,  at  various  times,  landed  him  in 
unexpected  positions.  The  question  now  was,  not 
whether  he  should  divide  the  common  pressure 
of  destiny  with  his  suffering  fellow-men ;  it  was 
whether  all  the  resources  of  lying  would  save  him 
from  being  crushed  by  the  consequences  of  that 
habitual  choice. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

INSIDE   THE   DUOMO. 

When  Baldassarre,  with  his  hands  bound  to- 
gether, and  the  rope  round  -his  neck  and  body, 
pushed  his  way  behind  the  curtain,  and  saw  the 
interior  of  the  Duomo  before  him,  he  gave  a  start 
of  astonishment,  and  stood  still  against  the  door- 
way. He  had  expected  to  see  a  vast  nave  empty 
of  everything  but  lifeless  emblems,  —  side  altars 
with  candles  unlit,  dim  pictures,  pale  and  rigid 
statues, — with  perhaps  a  few  worshippers  in  the 
distant  choir  following  a  monotonous  chant.  That 
was  the  ordinary  aspect  of  churches  to  a  man  who 
never  went  into  them  with  any  religious  purpose. 

And  he  saw,  instead,  a  vast  multitude  of  warm, 
living  faces,  upturned  in  breathless  silence  towards 
the  pulpit,  at  the  angle  between  the  nave  and  the 
choir.  The  multitude  was  of  all  ranks,  from  mag- 
istrates and  dames  of  gentle  nurture  to  coarsely  clad 
artisans  and  country  people.  In  the  pulpit  was  a 
Dominican  friar,  with  strong  features  and  dark  hair, 
preaching  with  the  crucifix  in  his  hand. 

For  the  first  few  minutes  Baldassarre  noted 
nothing  of  his  preaching.  Silent  as  his  entrance 
had  been,  some  eyes  near  the  doorway  had  been 
turned  on  him  with  surprise  and  suspicion.  The 
rope  indicated  plainly  enough  that  he  was  an 
escaped    prisoner,    but   in    that   case   the   church 


INSIDE  THE   DUOMO.  31 

was  a  sanctuary  which  he  had  a  right  to  claim ; 
his  advanced  years  and  look  of  wild  misery  were 
fitted  to  excite  pity  rather  than  alarm ;  and  as  he 
stood  motionless,  with  eyes  that  soon  wandered 
absently  from  the  wide  scene  before  him  to  the 
pavement  at  his  feet,  those  who  had  observed  his 
entrance  presently  ceased  to  regard  him,  and  be- 
came absorbed  again  in  the  stronger  interest  of 
listening  to  the  sermon. 

Among  the  eyes  that  had  been  turned  towards 
him  were  Romola's :  she  had  entered  late  through 
one  of  the  side  doors,  and  was  so  placed  that  she 
had  a  full  view  of  the  main  entrance.  She  had 
looked  long  and  attentively  at  Baldassarre,  for  gray 
hairs  made  a  peculiar  appeal  to  her,  and  the  stamp 
of  some  unwonted  suffering  in  the  face,  confirmed 
by  the  cord  round  his  neck,  stirred  in  her  those 
sensibilities  towards  the  sorrows  of  age,  which  her 
whole  life  had  tended  to  develop.  She  fancied  that 
his  eyes  had  met  hers  in  their  first  wandering 
gaze ;  but  Baldassarre  had  not,  in  reality,  noted 
her;  he  had  only  had  a  startled  consciousness  of 
the  general  scene,  and  the  consciousness  was  a  mere 
flash  that  made  no  perceptible  break  in  the  fierce 
tumult  of  emotion  which  the  encounter  with  Tito 
had  created.  Images  from  the  past  kept  urging 
themselves  upon  him  like  delirious  visions  strangely 
blended  with  thirst  and  anguish.  No  distinct 
thought  for  the  future  could  shape  itself  in  the 
midst  of  that  fiery  passion  :  the  nearest  approach 
to  such  tliought  was  the  bitter  sense  of  enfeebled 
powers,  and  a  vague  determination  to  universal 
distrust  and  suspicion.  Suddenly  he  felt  liimself 
vibrating  to  loud  tones,  which  seemed  like  the 
thundering   echo   of   his   own    passion.       A   voice 


32  ROMOLA. 

that  penetrated  his  very  marrow  with  its  accent 
of  triumphant  certitude  was  saying, —  "  The  day  of 
vengeance  is  at  hand !  " 

Baldassarre  quivered  and  looked  up.  He  was 
too  distant  to  see  more  than  the  general  aspect  of 
the  preacher  standing,  with  his  right  arm  out- 
stretched, lifting  up  the  crucifix ;  but  he  panted 
for  the  threatening  voice  again  as  if  it  had  been  a 
promise  of  bliss.  There  was  a  pause  before  the 
preacher  spoke  again.  He  gradually  lowered  his 
arm.  He  deposited  the  crucifix  on  the  edge  of 
the  pulpit,  and  crossed  his  arms  over  his  breast, 
looking  round  at  the  multitude  as  if  he  would  meet 
the  glance  of  every  individual  face. 

"All  ye  in  Florence  are  my  witnesses,  for  I 
spoke  not  in  a  corner.  Ye  are  my  witnesses,  that 
four  years  ago,  when  there  were  yet  no  signs  of 
war  and  tribulation,  I  preached  the  coming  of  the 
scourge.  I  lifted  up  my  voice  as  a  trumpet  to  the 
prelates  and  princes  and  people  of  Italy,  and  said, 
The  cup  of  your  iniquity  is  full.  Behold,  the 
thunder  of  the  Lord  is  gathering,  and  it  shall  fall 
and  break  the  cup,  and  your  iniquity,  which  seems 
to  you  as  pleasant  wine,  shall  be  poured  out  upon 
you,  and  shall  be  as  molten  lead.  And  you,  O 
priests,  who  say,  Ha,  ha !  there  is  no  Presence  in  the 
sanctuary  —  the  Shechinah  is  naught  —  the  Mercy- 
seat  is  bare  :  we  may  sin  behind  the  veil,  and  who 
shall  punish  us  ?  To  you,  I  said,  the  presence  of 
God  shall  be  revealed  in  his  temple  as  a  consum- 
ing fire,  and  your  sacred  garments  shall  become  a 
winding-sheet  of  flame,  and  for  sweet  music  there 
shall  be  shrieks  and  hissing,  and  for  soft  couches 
there  shall  be  thorns,  and  for  the  breath  of  wantons 
shall  come  the  pestilence.     Trust  not  in  your  gold 


immY 

OF  THE 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO.  33 

and  silver,  trust  not  in  your  high  fortresses ;  for, 
though  the  walls  were  of  iron,  and  the  fortresses  of 
adamant,  the  Most  High  shall  put  terror  into  your 
hearts  and  weakness  into  your  councils,  so  that 
you  shall  be  confounded  and  flee  like  women.  He 
shall  break  in  pieces  mighty  men  without  number, 
and  put  others  in  their  stead.  For  God  will  no 
longer  endure  the  pollution  of  his  sanctuary;  he 
will  thoroughly  purge  his  Church. 

*•'  And  forasmuch  as  it  is  written  that  God  will 
do  nothing  but  he  revealeth  it  to  his  servants  the 
prophets,  he  has  chosen  me,  his  unworthy  servant, 
and  made  his  purpose  present  to  my  soul  in  the 
living  word  of  the  Scriptures,  and  in  the  deeds  of 
his  providence ;  and  by  the  ministry  of  angels  he 
has  revealed  it  to  me  in  visions.  And  his  word 
possesses  me  so  that  I  am  but  as  the  branch  of  the 
forest  when  the  wind  of  heaven  penetrates  it,  and 
it  is  not  in  me  to  keep  silence,  even  though  I  may 
be  a  derision  to  the  scomer.  And  for  four  years  I 
have  preached  in  obedience  to  the  Divine  will :  in 
the  face  of  scoffing  I  have  preached  three  things, 
which  the  Lord  has  delivered  to  me :  that  in  these 
times  God  vrill  regenerate  his  Church,  and  that  be- 
fore the  regeneration  must  come  the  scourge  over  all 
Italy,  and  that  these  things  u-ill  came  quicJdy. 

"  But  hypocrites  who  cloak  their  hatred  of  the 
truth  with  a  show  of  love  have  said  to  me,  'Come 
now,  Frate,  leave  your  prophesyings :  it  is  enough 
to  teach  virtue.'  To  these  I  answer:  'Yes,  you 
say  in  your  hearts,  God  lives  afar  off,  and  his 
word  is  as  a  parchment  written  by  dead  men,  and 
he  deals  not  as  in  the  days  of  old,  rebuking  the 
nations,  and  punishing  the  oppressors,  and  smit- 
ing the  unholy  priests  as  he  smote  the  sons  of  EIL 

▼OL.  II. —  3 


34  ROMOLA. 

But  I  cry  again  in  your  ears :  God  is  near  and  not 
afar  off;  his  judgments  change  not.  He  is  the  God 
of  armies ;  the  strong  men  who  go  up  to  battle  are 
his  ministers,  even  as  the  storm,  and  fire,  and 
pestilence.  He  drives  them  by  the  breath  of  his 
angels,  and  they  come  upon  the  chosen  land  which 
has  forsaken  the  covenant.  And  thou,  0  Italy, 
art  the  chosen  land ;  has  not  God  placed  his  sanc- 
tuary within  thee,  and  thou  hast  polluted  it  ?  Be- 
hold, the  ministers  of  his  wrath  are  upon  thee,  — 
they  are  at  thy  very  doors !  '. " 

Savonarola's  voice  had  been  rising  in  impas- 
sioned force  up  to  this  point,  when  he  became  sud- 
denly silent,  let  his  hands  fall  and  clasped  them 
quietly  before  him.  His  silence,  instead  of  being 
the  signal  for  small  movements  among  his  audi- 
ence, seemed  to  be  as  strong  a  spell  to  them  as  his 
voice.  Through  the  vast  area  of  the  cathedral  men 
and  women  sat  with  faces  upturned,  like  breathing 
statues,  till  the  voice  was  heard  again  in  clear  low 
tones. 

"  Yet  there  is  a  pause  —  even  as  in  the  days 
when  Jerusalem  was  destroyed  there  was  a  pause 
that  the  children  of  God  might  flee  from  it.  There 
is  a  stillness  before  the  storm :  lo,  there  is  black- 
ness above,  but  not  a  leaf  quakes :  the  winds  are 
stayed,  that  the  voice  of  God's  warning  may  be 
heard.  Hear  it  now,  0  Florence,  chosen  city  in 
the  chosen  land !  Eepent  and  forsake  evil :  do  jus- 
tice :  love  mercy :  put  away  all  uncleanness  from 
among  you,  that  the  spirit  of  truth  and  holiness 
may  fill  your  souls  and  breathe  through  all  your 
streets  and  habitations,  and  then  the  pestilence 
shall  not  enter,  and  the  sword  shall  pass  over  you 
and  leave  you  unhurt. 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO.  35 

"  For  the  sword  is  hanging  from  the  sky ;  it  is 
quivering ;  it  is  about  to  fall !  Tlie  sword  of  God 
upon  the  earth,  swift  and  sudden  !  Did  I  not  tell 
you,  years  ago,  that  I  had  beheld  the  vision  and 
heard  the  voice  ?  And  behold,  it  is  fulfilled !  Is 
there  not  a  king  with  his  army  at  your  gates  ? 
Does  not  the  earth  shake  with  the  tread  of  horses 
and  the  wheels  of  swift  cannon  ?  Is  there  not  a 
fierce  multitude  that  can  lay  bare  the  land  as  with 
a  sharp  razor?  I  tell  you  the  French  king  with 
his  army  is  the  minister  of  God:  God  shall  guide 
him  as  the  hand  guides  a  sharp  sickle,  and  the 
joints  of  the  wicked  shall  melt  before  him,  and 
they  shall  be  mown  down  as  stubble  :  he  that  fleeth 
of  them  shall  not  flee  away,  and  he  that  escapeth 
of  them  shall  not  be  delivered.  And  the  tyrants 
who  have  made  to  themselves  a  throne  out  of  the 
vices  of  the  multitude,  and  the  unbelieving  priests 
who  traffic  in  the  souls  of  men  and  fill  the  very 
sanctuary  with  fornication,  shall  be  hurled  from 
their  soft  couches  into  burning  hell ;  and  the  pa- 
gans and  they  who  sinned  under  the  old  covenant 
shall  stand  aloof  and  say :  '  Lo,  these  men  have 
brought  the  stench  of  a  new  wickedness  into  the 
everlasting  fire. ' 

"  But  thou,  0  Florence,  take  the  offered  mercy. 
See !  the  Cross  is  held  out  to  you :  come  and  be 
healed.  Which  among  the  nations  of  Italy  has 
had  a  token  like  unto  yours?  The  tyrant  is 
driven  out  from  among  you :  the  men  who  held 
a  bribe  in  their  left  hand  and  a  rod  in  the  right 
are  gone  forth,  and  no  blood  has  been  spilled. 
And  now  put  away  every  other  abomination  from 
among  you,  and  you  shall  be  strong  in  the  strength 
of  the  living  God.     Wash  yourselves  from  the  black 


36  ROMOLA. 

pitch  of  your  vices,  which  have  made  you  even  as 
the  heathens :  put  away  the  envy  and  hatred  that 
have  made  your  city  as  a  nest  of  wolves.  And 
there  shall  no  harm  happen  to  you :  and  the  pas- 
sage of  armies  shall  be  to  you  as  a  flight  of  birds, 
and  rebellious  Pisa  shall  be  given  to  you  again, 
and  famine  and  pestilence  shall  be  far  from  your 
gates,  and  you  shall  be  as  a  beacon  among  the 
nations.  But,  mark  !  while  you  suffer  the  accursed 
thing  to  lie  in  the  camp,  you  shall  be  afflicted  and 
tormented,  even  though  a  remnant  among  you  may 
be  saved.  " 

These  admonitions  and  promises  had  been  spoken 
in  an  incisive  tone  of  authority ;  but  in  the  next 
sentence  the  preacher's  voice  melted  into  a  strain 
of  entreaty. 

"  Listen,  0  people,  over  whom  my  heart  yearns, 
as  the  heart  of  a  mother  over  the  children  she  ha,s 
travailed  for  1  God  is  my  witness  that  but  for  your 
sakes  I  would  willingly  live  as  a  turtle  in  the 
depths  of  the  forest,  singing  low  to  my  Beloved, 
who  is  mine  and  I  am  his.  For  you  I  toil,  for 
you  I  languish,  for  you  my  nights  are  spent  in 
watching,  and  my  soul  melteth  away  for  very 
heaviness.      0  Lord,  thou  knowest  I  am  willing 

—  I  am  ready.  Take  me,  stretch  me  on  thy  cross  : 
let  the  wicked  who  delight  in  blood,  and  rob  the 
poor,  and  defile  the  temple  of  their  bodies,  and 
harden  themselves  against  thy  mercy, —  let  them 
wag  their  heads  and  shoot  out  the  lip  at  me :  let 
the  thorns  press  upon  my  brow,  and  let  my  sweat 
be  anguish,  —  I  desire  to  be  made  like  thee  in  thy 
great  love.      But  let  me  see  the  fruit  of  my  travail, 

—  let  this  people  be  saved !  Let  me  see  them 
clothed  in  purity ;  let  me  hear  their  voices  rise 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO.  37 

in  concord  as  the  voices  of  the  angels :  let  them 
see  no  wisdom  but  in  thy  eternal  law,  no  beauty 
but  in  holiness.  Then  they  shall  lead  the  way 
before  the  nations,  and  the  people  from  the  four 
winds  shall  follow  them,  and  be  gathered  into  the 
fold  of  the  blessed.  For  it  is  thy  will,  0  God, 
that  the  earth  shall  be  converted  unto  thy  law  :  it 
is  thy  will  that  wickedness  shall  cease  and  love 
shall  reign.  Come,  0  blessed  promise ;  and  behold, 
I  am  willing,  — lay  me  on  the  altar:  let  my  blood 
flow  and  the  fire  consume  me ;  but  let  my  witness 
be  remembered  among  men,  that  iniquity  shall  not 
prosper  forever,  "^ 

During  the  last  appeal  Savonarola  had  stretched 
out  his  arms  and  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  heaven ;  his 
strong  voice  had  alternately  trembled  with  emotion 
and  risen  again  in  renewed  energy ;  but  the  pas- 
sion with  which  he  offered  himself  as  a  victim  be- 
came at  last  too  strong  to  allow  of  further  speech, 
and  he  ended  in  a  sob.  Every  changing  tone, 
vibrating  through  the  audience,  shook  them  into 
answering  emotion.  There  were  plenty  among 
them  who  had  very  moderate  faith  in  the  Frate's 
prophetic  mission,  and  who  in  their  cooler  mo- 
ments loved  him  little ;  nevertheless,  they  too 
were  carried  along  by  the  great  wave  of  feeling 
which  gathered  its  force  from  sympathies  that  lay 
deeper  than  all  theory.  A  loud  responding  sob 
rose  at  once  from  the  wide  multitude,  while  Savo- 
narola had  fallen  on  his  knees  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  mantle.  He  felt  in  that  moment  the  rapture 
and  glory  of  martyrdom  without  its  agony. 

^  The  sermon  here  given  is  not  a  translation,  hut  a  free  repre- 
sentation of  Fra  Girolatno's  preaching  in  its  more  impassioned 
moments. 


38  ROMOLA. 

In  that  great  sob  of  the  multitude  Baldassarre's 
had  mingled.  Among  all  the  human  beings  pres- 
ent, there  was  perhaps  not  one  whose  frame  vi- 
brated more  strongly  than  his  to  the  tones  and 
words  of  the  preacher ;  but  it  had  vibrated  like  a 
harp  of  which  all  the  strings  had  been  wrenched 
away  except  one.  That  threat  of  a  fiery  inexora- 
ble vengeance  — •  of  a  future  into  which  the  hated 
sinner  might  be  pursued  and  held  by  the  avenger 
in  an  eternal  grapple  —  had  come  to  him  like  the 
promise  of  an  unquenchable  fountain  to  unquencha- 
ble thirst.  The  doctrines  of  the  sages,  the  old 
contempt  for  priestly  superstitions,  had  fallen 
away  from  his  soul  like  a  forgotten  language : 
if  he  could  have  remembered  them,  what  an- 
swer could  they  have  given  to  his  great  need 
like  the  answer  given  by  this  voice  of  energetic 
conviction  ?  The  thunder  of  denunciation  fell  on 
his  passion-wrought  nerves  with  all  the  force  of 
self-evidence :  his  thought  never  went  beyond  it 
into  questions,  —  he  was  possessed  by  it  as  the  war- 
horse  is  possessed  by  the  clash  of  sounds.  No 
word  that  was  not  a  threat  touched  his  conscious- 
ness ;  he  had  no  fibre  to  be  thrilled  by  it.  But  the 
fierce  exultant  delight  to  which  he  was  moved  by 
the  idea  of  perpetual  vengeance  found  at  once  a 
climax  and  a  relieving  outburst  in  the  preacher's 
words  of  self-sacrifice.  To  Baldassarre  those  words 
only  brought  the  vague  triumphant  sense  that  he 
too  was  devoting  himself  —  signing  with  his  own 
blood  the  deed  by  which  he  gave  himself  over  to 
an  unending  fire,  that  would  seem  but  coolness  to 
his  burning  hatred. 

"  I  rescued  him  —  I  cherished  him  —  if  I  might 
clutch  his  heart-strings  forever !     Come,  0  blessed 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO.  39 

promise !     Let  my  blood  flow ;  let  the  fire  consume 
me!" 

The  one  chord  vibrated  to  its  utmost.  Baldas- 
sarre  clutched  his  own  palms,  driving  his  long 
nails  into  them,  and  burst  into  a  sob  with  the 
rest 


CHAPTEE  V. 

OUTSIDE   THE   DUOMO. 

While  Baldassarre  was  possessed  by  the  voice  of 
Savonarola,  he  had  not  noticed  that  another  man 
had  entered  through  the  doorway  behind  him,  and 
stood  not  far  off  observing  him.  It  was  Piero  di 
Cosimo,  who  took  no  heed  of  the  preaching,  hav- 
ing come  solely  to  look  at  the  escaped  prisoner. 
During  the  pause,  in  which  the  preacher  and  his 
audience  had  given  themselves  up  to  inarticulate 
emotion,  the  new-comer  advanced  and  touched 
Baldassarre  on  the  arm.  He  looked  round  with 
the  tears  still  slowly  rolling  down  his  face,  but 
with  a  vigorous  sigh,  as  if  he  had  done  with  that 
outburst.  The  painter  spoke  to  him  in  a  low 
tone,  — 

"  Shall  I  cut  your  cords  for  you  ?  I  have  heard 
how  you  were  made  prisoner. " 

Baldassarre  did  not  reply  immediately ;  he 
glanced  suspiciously  at  the  officious  stranger. 
At  last  he  said,    "  If  you  will.  " 

"  Better  come  outside, "  said  Piero. 

Baldassarre  again  looked  at  him  suspiciously; 
and  Piero,  partly  guessing  his  thought,  smiled, 
took  out  a  knife,  and  cut  the  cords.  He  began 
to  think  that  the  idea  of  the  prisoner's  madness 
was  not  improbable,  there  was  something  so  pe- 
culiar in  the  expression  of  his  face.     "  Well, "  he 


OUTSIDE  THE  DUOMO.  41 

thought,  "  if  he  does  any  mischief,  he  '11  soon  get 
tied  up  again.  The  poor  devil  shall  have  a  chance 
at  least. " 

.  "  You  are  afraid  of  me, "  he  said  again  in  an 
undertone;  "you  don't  want  to  tell  me  anything 
about  yourself.  " 

Baldassarre  was  folding  his  arms  in  enjoyment 
of  the  long-absent  muscular  sensation.  He  an- 
swered Piero  with  a  less  suspicious  look  and  a 
tone  which  had  some  quiet  decision  in  it. 

"  No,  I  have  nothing  to  tell.  " 

"  As  you  please, "  said  Piero,  "  but  perhaps  you 
want  shelter,  and  may  not  know  how  hospitable 
we  Florentines  are  to  visitors  with  torn  doublets 
and  empty  stomachs.  There  's  an  hospital  for  poor 
travellers  outside  all  our  gates,  and,  if  you  liked, 
I  could  put  you  in  the  way  to  one.  There  's  no 
danger  from  your  French  soldier.  He  has  been 
sent  off. " 

Baldassarre  nodded,  and  turned  in  silent  accept- 
ance of  the  offer,  and  he  and  Piero  left  the  church 
together. 

"  You  wouldn't  like  to  sit  to  me  for  your  por- 
trait, should  you  ?  "  said  Piero,  as  they  went  along 
the  Via  dell'  Oriuolo,  on  the  way  to  the  gate  of 
Santa  Croce.  "  I  am  a  painter :  I  would  give  you 
money  to  get  your  portrait.  " 

The  suspicion  returned  into  Baldassarre's  glance, 
as  he  looked  at  Piero,  and  said  decidedly,  "  No. " 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  painter,  curtly.  "  Well,  go 
straight  on  and  you  '11  find  the  Porta  Santa 
Croce,  and  outside  it  there 's  an  hospital  for 
travellers.  So  you  '11  not  accept  any  service 
from  me  ? " 

"  I  give  you  thanks  for  what  you  have  done 
already.     I  need  no  more. " 


42  ROMOLA. 

"  It  is  well, "  said  Piero,  with  a  shrug ;  and  they 
turned  away  from  each  other. 

"  A  mysterious  old  tiger !  "  thought  the  artist, 
"  well  worth  painting.  Ugly  —  with  deep  lines -^— 
looking  as  if  the  plough  and  the  harrow  had  gone 
over  his  heart.  A  fine  contrast  to  my  bland  and 
smiling  Messer  Greco  —  my  Bacco  trionfante,  who 
has  married  the  fair  Antigone  in  contradiction  to 
all  history  and  fitness.  Aha!  his  scholar's  blood 
curdled  uncomfortably  at  the  old  fellow's  clutch!  " 

When  Piero  re-entered  the  Piazza  del  Duomo  the 
multitude  who  had  been  listening  to  Pra  Girolamo 
were  pouring  out  from  all  the  doors,  and  the  haste 
they  made  to  go  on  their  several  ways  was  a  proof 
how  important  they  held  the  preaching  which  had 
detained  them  from  the  other  occupations  of  the 
day.  The  artist  leaned  against  an  angle  of  the 
baptistery  and  watched  the  departing  crowd,  de- 
lighting in  the  variety  of  the  garb  and  of  the  keen 
characteristic  faces,  —  faces  such  as  Masaccio  had 
painted  more  than  fifty  years  before,  such  as 
Domenico  Ghirlandajo  had  not  yet  quite  left  off 
painting. 

This  morning  was  a  peculiar  occasion ;  and  the 
Prate's  audience,  always  multifarious,  had  repre- 
sented even  more  completely  than  usual  the 
various  classes  and  political  parties  of  Florence. 
There  were  men  of  high  birth,  accustomed  to 
public  charges  at  home  and  abroad,  who  had  be- 
come newly  conspicuous  not  only  as  enemies  of 
the  Medici  and  friends  of  popular  government,  but 
as  thorough  Piagnoni,  espousing  to  the  utmost  the 
doctrines  and  practical  teaching  of  the  Prate,  and 
frequenting  San  Marco  as  the  seat  of  another  Sam- 
uel :  some  of  them  men  of  authoritative  and  hand- 


OUTSIDE   THE  DUOMO.  43 

some  presence,  like  Francesco  Yalori,  and  perhaps 
also  of  a  hot  and  anogaut  temper,  very  much  grati- 
fied by  an  immediate  divine  authority  for  bringing 
about  freedom  in  their  own  way ;  others,  like  Sode- 
rini,  with  less  of  the  ardent  Piagnone,  and  more  of 
the  wise  politician.  There  were  men,  also  of  fam- 
ily, like  Piero  Capponi,  simply  brave  undoctrinal 
lovers  of  a  sober  republican  liberty,  who  preferred 
fighting  to  arguing,  and  had  no  particular  reasons 
for  thinking  any  ideas  false  that  kept  out  the 
Medici  and  made  room  for  public  spirit.  At  their 
elbows  were  doctors  of  law  whose  studies  of  Accur- 
sius  and  his  brethren  had  not  so  entirely  consumed 
their  ardour  as  to  prevent  them  from  becoming  en- 
thusiastic Piagnoni :  Messer  Luca  Corsini  himself, 
for  example,  who  on  a  memorable  occasion  yet  to 
come  was  to  raise  his  learned  arms  in  street  stone- 
throwing  for  the  cause  of  religion,  freedom,  and  the 
Frate.  And  among  the  dignities  who  carried  their 
black  lucco  or  furred  mantle  with  an  air  of  habit- 
ual authority,  there  was  an  abundant  sprinkling 
of  men  with  more  contemplative  and  sensitive 
faces :  scholars  inheriting  such  high  names  as 
Strozzi  and  Acciajoli,  who  were  already  minded 
to  take  the  cowl  and  join  the  community  of  San 
Marco ;  artists,  wrought  to  a  new  and  higher  ambi- 
tion by  the  teaching  of  Savonarola,  like  that  young 
painter  who  had  lately  surpassed  himself  in  his 
fresco  of  the  divine  child  on  the  wall  of  the 
Frate's  bare  cell,  — unconscious  yet  that  he  would 
one  day  himself  wear  the  tonsure  and  the  cowl, 
and  be  called  Fra  Bartolommeo.  There  was  the 
mystic  poet  Girolamo  Benevieni  hastening,  per- 
haps, to  carry  tidings  of  the  beloved  Frate's  speedy 
coming  to  his  friend  Pico  della  Mirandola,  who 


44  ROMOLA. 

was  never  to  see  the  light  of  another  morning. 
There  were  well-born  women  attired  with  such 
scrupulous  plainness  that  their  more  refined  grace 
was  the  chief  distinction  between  them  and  their 
less  aristocratic  sisters.  There  was  a  predominant 
proportion  of  the  genuine  popolani,  or  middle  class, 
belonging  both  to  the  Major  and  Minor  Arts,  con- 
scious of  purses  threatened  by  war-taxes.  And  more 
striking  and  various,  perhaps,  than  all  the  other 
classes  of  the  Frate's  disciples,  there  was  the  long 
stream  of  poorer  tradesmen  and  artisans,  whose 
faith  and  hope  in  his  Divine  message  varied  from 
the  rude  and  undiscriminating  trust  in  him  as  the 
friend  of  the  poor  and  the  enemy  of  the  luxurious 
oppressive  rich,  to  that  eager  tasting  of  all  the 
subtleties  of  biblical  interpretation  which  takes  a 
peculiarly  strong  hold  on  the  sedentary  artisan, 
illuminating  the  long  dim  spaces  beyond  the  board 
where  he  stitclies,  with  a  pale  flame  that  seems  to 
him  the  light  of  Divine  science. 

But  among  these  various  disciples  of  the  Frate 
were  scattered  many  who  were  not  in  the  least  his 
disciples.  Some  were  Mediceans  who  had  already, 
from  motives  of  fear  and  policy,  begun  to  show  the 
presiding  spirit  of  the  popular  party  a  feigned  def- 
erence. Others  were  sincere  advocates  of  a  free 
government,  but  regarded  Savonarola  simply  as  an 
ambitious  monk  —  half  sagacious,  half  fanatical  — 
who  had  made  himself  a  powerful  instrument  with 
the  people,  and  must  be  accepted  as  an  important 
social  fact.  There  were  even  some  of  his  bitter 
enemies :  members  of  the  old  aristocratic  anti- 
Medicean  party,  —  determined  to  try  and  get  the 
reins  once  more  tight  in  the  hands  of  certain  chief 
families;  or  else  licentious  young  men,   who  de- 


OUTSIDE  THE  DUOMO.  45 

tested  him  as  the  kill-joy  of  Florence.  For  the 
sermons  in  the  Duomo  had  already  become  politi- 
cal incidents,  attracting  the  ears  of  curiosity  and 
malice,  as  well  as  of  faith.  The  men  of  ideas,  like 
young  Niccolo  Macchiavelli,  went  to  observe  and 
write  reports  to  friends  away  in  country  villas  ;  the 
men  of  appetites,  like  Dolfo  Spini,  bent  on  hunting 
down  the  Frate,  as  a  public  nuisance  who  made 
game  scarce,  went  to  feed  their  hatred  and  lie  in 
wait  for  grounds  of  accusation. 

Perhaps,  while  no  preacher  ever  had  a  more 
massive  influence  than  Savonarola,  no  preacher 
ever  had  more  heterogeneous  materials  to  work 
upon.  And  one  secret  of  the  massive  influence  lay 
in  the  highly  mixed  character  of  his  preaching. 
Baldassarre,  wrought  into  an  ecstasy  of  self-mar- 
tyring revenge,  was  only  an  extreme  case  among 
the  partial  and  narrow  sympathies  of  that  audience. 
In  Savonarola's  preaching  there  were  strains  that 
appealed  to  the  very  finest  susceptibilities  of  men's 
natures,  and  there  were  elements  that  gratified  low 
egoism,  tickled  gossiping  curiosity,  and  fascinated 
timorous  superstition.  His  need  of  personal  pre- 
dominance, his  labyrinthine  allegorical  interpreta- 
tions of  the  Scriptures,  his  enigmatic  visions,  and 
his  false  certitude  about  the  Divine  intentions, 
never  ceased,  in  his  own  large  soul,  to  be  ennobled 
by  that  fervid  piety,  that  passionate  sense  of  the 
infinite,  that  active  sympathy,  that  clear-sighted 
demand  for  the  subjection  of  selfish  interests  to 
the  general  good,  which  he  had  in  common  with 
the  greatest  of  mankind.  But  for  the  mass  of  his 
audience  all  the  pregnancy  of  his  preaching  lay  in 
his  strong  assertion  of  supernatural  claims,  in  his 
denunciatory  visions,  in  the  false  certitude  which 


46  ROMOLA. 

gave  his  sermons  the  interest  of  a  political  bulletin  ; 
and  having  once  held  that  audience  in  his  mastery, 
it  was  necessary  to  his  nature  —  it  was  necessary 
for  their  welfare  —  that  he  should  keep  the  mastery. 
The  effect  was  inevitable.  No  man  ever  struggled 
to  retain  power  over  a  mixed  multitude  without 
suffering  vitiation ;  his  standard  must  be  their 
lower  needs  and  not  his  own  best  insight. 

The  mysteries  of  human  character  have  seldom 
been  presented  in  a  way  more  fitted  to  check  the 
judgments  of  facile  knowingness  than  in  Girolamo 
Savonarola;  but  we  can  give  him  a  reverence  that 
needs  no  shutting  of  the  eyes  to  fact,  if  we  regard 
his  life  as  a  drama  in  which  there  were  great  inward 
modifications  accompanying  the  outward  changes. 
And  up  to  this  period,  when  his  more  direct  action 
on  political  affairs  had  only  just  begun,  it  is  prob- 
able that  his  imperious  need  of  ascendency  had 
burned  undiscernibly  in  the  strong  flame  of  his 
zeal  for  God  and  man. 

It  was  the  fashion  of  old,  when  an  ox  was  led 
out  for  sacrifice  to  Jupiter,  to  chalk  the  dark  spots, 
and  give  the  offering  a  false  show  of  unblemished 
whiteness.  Let  us  fling  away  the  chalk,  and  boldly 
say,  —  the  victim  is  spotted,  but  it  is  not  therefore 
in  vain  that  his  mighty  heart  is  laid  on  the  altar 
of  men's  highest  hopes. 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

THE   GARMENT  OF  FEAR. 

At  six  o'clock  that  evening  most  people  in  Florence 
were  glad  the  entrance  of  the  new  Charlemagne  was 
fairly  over.  Doubtless  when  the  roll  of  drums,  the 
blast  of  trumpets,  and  the  tramp  of  horses  along 
the  Pisan  road  began  to  mingle  with  the  pealing  of 
the  excited  bells,  it  was  a  grand  moment  for  those 
who  were  stationed  on  turreted  roofs  and  could  see 
the  long-winding  terrible  pomp  on  the  background 
of  the  green  hills  and  valley.  There  was  no  sun- 
shine to  light  up  the  splendour  of  banners,  and 
spears,  and  plumes,  and  silken  surcoats ;  but  there 
was  no  thick  cloud  of  dust  to  hide  it,  and  as  the 
picked  troops  advanced  into  close  view,  they  could  be 
seen  all  the  more  distinctly  for  the  absence  of  dan- 
cing glitter.  Tall  and  tough  Scotch  archers,  Swiss 
halberdiers  fierce  and  ponderous,  nimble  Gascons 
ready  to  wheel  and  climb,  cavalry  in  which  each 
man  looked  like  a  knight-errant  with  his  indomi- 
table spear  and  charger,  —  it  was  satisfactory  to  be 
assured  that  they  would  injure  nobody  but  the 
enemies  of  God  !  With  that  confidence  at  heart  it 
was  a  less  dubious  pleasure  to  look  at  the  array  of 
strength  and  splendour  in  nobles  and  knights,  and 
youthful  pages  of  choice  lineage, — at  the  bossed 
and  jewelled  sword-hilts,  at  the  satin  scarfs  em- 
broidered with  strange  symbolical  devices  of  pious 


48  ROMOLA. 

or  gallant  meaning,  at  the  gold  chains  and  jewelled 
aigrettes,  at  the  gorgeous  horse-trappings  and  bro- 
caded mantles,  and  at  the  transcendent  canopy  car- 
ried by  select  youths  above  the  head  of  the  Most 
Christian  King.  To  sum  up  with  an  old  diarist, 
whose  spelling  and  diction  halted  a  little  be- 
hind the  wonders  of  this  royal  visit,  —  "  fii  gran 
magnificenza.  " 

But  for  the  Signoria,  who  had  been  waiting  on 
their  platform  against  the  gates,  and  had  to  march 
out  at  the  right  moment,  with  their  orator  in  front 
of  them,  to  meet  the  mighty  guest,  the  grandeur  of 
the  scene  had  been  somewhat  screened  by  unpleas- 
ant sensations.  If  Messer  Luca  Corsini  could  have 
had  a  brief  Latin  welcome  depending  from  his 
mouth  in  legible  characters,  it  would  have  been 
less  confusing  when  the  rain  came  on,  and  created 
an  impatience  in  men  and  horses  that  broke  off  the 
delivery  of  his  well-studied  periods,  and  reduced 
the  representatives  of  the  scholarly  city  to  offer  a 
make-shift  welcome  in  impromptu  French.  But 
that  sudden  confusion  had  created  a  great  opportu- 
nity for  Tito.  As  one  of  the  secretaries  he  was 
among  the  officials  who  were  stationed  behind  the 
Signoria,  and  with  whom  these  highest  dignities 
were  promiscuously  thrown  when  pressed  upon  by 
the  horses. 

"  Somebody  step  forward  and  say  a  few  words  in 
French, "  said  Soderini.  But  no  one  of  high  im- 
portance chose  to  risk  a  second  failure.  "  You, 
Francesco  Gaddi,  —  you  can  speak.  "  But  Gaddi, 
distrusting  his  own  promptness,  hung  back,  and 
pushing  Tito,   said,   "  You,   Melema.  " 

Tito  stepped  forward  in  an  instant,  and,  with 
the  air  of  profound  deference  that  came  as  naturally 


THE  GARMENT  OF  TEAR.  49 

to  him  as  walking,  said  the  few  needful  words  in 
the  name  of  the  Signoria ;  then  gave  way  grace- 
fully, and  let  the  king  pass  on.  His  presence  of 
mind,  which  had  failed  him  in  the  terrible  crisis 
of  the  morning,  had  been  a  ready  instrument  this 
time.  It  was  an  excellent  livery  servant  that 
never  forsook  him  when  danger  was  not  visible. 
But  when  he  was  complimented  on  his  opportune 
service,  he  laughed  it  off  as  a  thing  of  no  moment, 
and  to  those  who  had  not  witnessed  it,  let  Gaddi 
have  the  credit  of  the  improvised  welcome.  No 
wonder  Tito  was  popular :  the  touchstone  by  which 
men  try  us  is  most  often  their  own  vanity. 

Other  things  besides  the  oratorical  welcome  had 
turned  out  rather  worse  than  had  been  expected. 
If  everything  had  happened  according  to  ingenious 
preconceptions,  the  Florentine  procession  of  clergy 
and  laity  would  not  have  found  their  way  choked 
up  and  been  obliged  to  take  a  make-shift  course 
through  the  back  streets,  so  as  to  meet  the  king  at 
the  cathedral  only.  Also,  if  the  young  monarch 
under  the  canopy,  seated  on  his  charger  with  his 
lance  upon  his  thigh,  had  looked  more  like  a  Char- 
lemagne and  less  like  a  hastily  modelled  grotesque, 
the  imagination  of  his  admirers  would  have  been 
much  assisted.  It  might  have  been  wished  that 
the  scourge  of  Italian  wickedness  and  "  Champion 
of  the  honour  of  women  "  had  had  a  less  miserable 
leg,  and  only  the  normal  sum  of  toes ;  that  his 
mouth  had  been  of  a  less  reptilian  width  of  slit, 
his  nose  and  head  of  a  less  exorbitant  outline. 
But  the  thin  leg  rested  on  cloth  of  gold  and  pearls, 
and  the  face  was  only  an  interruption  of  a  few 
square  inches  in  the  midst  of  black  velvet  and 
gold,    and  tlie  blaze  of  rubies,  and  the  brilliant 

VOL.  II. —  4 


so  ROMOLA. 

tints  of  the  embroidered  and  bepearled  canopy,  — 
"  fu  gran  magnificenza.  " 

And  the  people  had  cried  Francia,  Francia!  with 
an  enthusiasm  proportioned  to  the  splendour  of 
the  canopy  which  they  had  torn  to  pieces  as  their 
spoil  according  to  immemorial  custom ;  royal  lips 
had  duly  kissed  the  altar ;  and  after  all  mischances 
the  royal  person  and  retinue  were  lodged  in  the 
Palace  of  the  Via  Larga,  the  rest  of  the  nobles  and 
gentry  were  dispersed  among  the  great  houses  of 
Florence,  and  the  terrible  soldiery  were  encamped 
in  the  Prato  and  other  open  quarters.  The  busi- 
ness of  the  day  was  ended. 

But  the  streets  still  presented  a  surprising  aspect, 
such  as  Florentines  had  not  seen  before  under  the 
November  stars.  Instead  of  a  gloom  unbroken 
except  by  a  lamp  burning  feebly  here  and  there 
before  a  saintly  image  at  the  street  corners,  or  by 
a  stream  of  redder  light  from  an  open  doorway, 
there  were  lamps  suspended  at  the  windows  of  all 
houses,  so  that  men  could  walk  along  no  less  se- 
curely and  commodiously  than  by  day,  — "  fu  gran 
magnificenza. " 

Along  those  illuminated  streets  Tito  Melema  was 
walking  at  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  on 
his  way  homeward.  He  had  been  exerting  him- 
self throughout  the  day  under  the  pressure  of  hid- 
den anxieties,  and  had  at  last  made  his  escape 
unnoticed  from  the  midst  of  after-supper  gayety. 
Once  at  leisure  thoroughly  to  face  and  consider  his 
circumstances,  he  hoped  that  he  could  so  adjust 
himself  to  them  and  to  all  probabilities  as  to  get 
rid  of  his  childish  fear.  If  he  had  only  not  been 
wanting  in  the  presence  of  mind  necessary  to  rec- 
ognize Baldassarre  under  that  surprise  !  —  it  would 


THE  GARMENT  OE  EEAR.  51 

have  been  happier  for  him  on  all  accounts ;  for  he 
still  winced  under  the  sense  that  he  was  deliber- 
ately inflicting  suffering  on  his  father :  he  would 
very  much  have  preferred  that  Baldassarre  should 
be  prosperous  and  happy.  But  he  had  left  himself 
no  second  path  now :  there  could  be  no  conflict  any 
longer :  the  only  thing  he  had  to  do  was  to  take 
care  of  himself. 

"NMiile  these  thoughts  were  in  his  mind  he  was 
advancing  from  the  Piazza  di  Santa  Croce  along  the 
Via  dei  Benci,  and  as  he  neared  the  angle  turning 
into  the  Borgo  Santa  Croce  his  ear  was  struck  by  a 
music  which  was  not  that  of  evening  revelry,  but 
of  vigorous  labour,  —  the  music  of  the  auvil.  Tito 
gave  a  slight  start  and  quickened  his  pace,  for  the 
sounds  had  suggested  a  welcome  thought.  He 
knew  that  they  came  from  the  workshop  of  Niccolo 
Caparra,  famous  resort  of  all  Florentines  who  cared 
for  curious  and  beautiful  iron-work. 

"  What  makes  the  giant  at  work  so  late  ?"  thought 
Tito.  "  But  so  much  the  better  for  me.  I  can  do 
that  little  bit  of  business  to-night  instead  of  to- 
morrow morning. " 

Preoccupied  as  he  was,  he  could  not  help  pausing 
a  moment  in  admiration  as  he  came  in  front  of  the 
workshop.  The  wide  doorway,  standing  at  the 
truncated  angle  of  a  great  block  or  "  isle"  of  houses, 
was  surmounted  by  a  loggia  roofed  with  fluted  tiles, 
and  supported  by  stone  columns  with  roughly  carved 
capitals.  Against  the  red  light  framed  in  by  the 
outline  of  the  fluted  tiles  and  columns  stood  in 
black  relief  the  grand  figure  of  Niccolo,  with  his 
huge  arms  in  rhythmic  rise  and  fall,  first  hiding 
and  then  disclosing  the  profile  of  his  firm  mouth 
and  powerful  brow.      Two  slighter  ebony  figures  — 


52  EOMOLA. 

one  at  the  anvil,  the  other  at  the  bellows  —  served 
to  set  off  his  superior  massiveness. 

Tito  darkened  the  doorway  witli  a  very  different 
outline,  standing  in  silence,  since  it  was  useless  to 
speak  until  Niccolo  should  deign  to  pause  and  no- 
tice him.  That  was  not  until  the  smith  had  beaten 
the  head  of  an  axe  to  the  due  sharpness  of  edge 
and  dismissed  it  from  his  anvil.  But  in  the  mean 
time  Tito  had  satisfied  himself  by  a  glance  round 
the  shop  that  the  object  of  which  he  was  in  search 
had  not  disappeared. 

Niccolo  gave  an  unceremonious  but  good- 
humoured  nod  as  he  turned  from  the  anvil  and 
rested  his  hammer  on  his  hip. 

"  What  is  it,  Messer  Tito  ?     Business  ?" 

"  Assuredly,  Niccolo ;  else  I  should  not  have 
ventured  to  interrupt  you  when  you  are  worij:ing 
out  of  hours,  since  I  take  that  as  a  sign  that  your 
work  is  pressing.  " 

"  I  've  been  at  the  same  work  all  day,  —  making 
axes  and  spear-heads.  And  every  fool  that  has 
passed  my  shop  has  put  his  pumpkin-head  in  to 
say,  'Niccolo,  wilt  thou  not  come  and  see  the  King 
of  France  and  his  soldiers  ? '  and  I  've  answered, 
'No:  I  don't  want  to  see  their  faces,  — I  want  to 
see  their  backs. '  " 

"  Are  you  making  arms  for  the  citizens,  then, 
Niccolo,  that  they  may  have  something  better  than 
rusty  scythes  and  spits  in  case  of  an  uproar  ?  " 

"  We  shall  see.  Arms  are  good,  and  Florence  is 
likely  to  want  them.  The  Frate  tells  us  we  shall 
get  Pisa  again,  and  I  hold  with  the  Frate ;  but  I 
should  be  glad  to  know  how  the  promise  is  to  be 
fulfilled,  if  we  don't  get  plenty  of  good  weapons 
forged.     The  Frate  sees  a  long  way  before  him ; 


THE  GARMENT  OF  FEAR.  53 

that  I  believe.  But  he  doesn't  see  birds  caught 
with  winking  at  them,  as  some  of  our  people  try  to 
make  out.  He  sees  sense,  and  not  nonsense.  But 
you  're  a  bit  of  a  Medicean,  Messer  Tito  Melema. 
Ebbene !  so  I  've  been  myself  in  my  time,  before 
the  cask  began  to  run  sour.  What  's  your 
business  ?  " 

"  Simply  to  know  the  price  of  that  fine  coat  of 
mail  I  saw  hanging  up  here  the  other  day.  I  want 
to  buy  it  for  a  certain  personage  who  needs  a  pro- 
tection of  that  sort  under  his  doublet.  " 

"  Let  him  come  and  buy  it  himself,  then, "  said 
Niccolo,  bluntly.  "  I  'm  rather  nice  about  what  I 
sell,  and  whom  I  sell  to.  I  like  to  know  who  's 
my  customer. " 

"  I  know  your  scruples,  Niccolo.  But  that  is 
only  defensive  armour :  it  can  hurt  nobody.  " 

"  True ;  but  it  may  make  the  man  who  wears  it 
feel  himself  all  the  safer  if  he  should  want  to  hurt 
somebody.  No,  no ;  it 's  not  my  own  work ;  but 
it 's  fine  work  of  Maso  of  Brescia ;  I  should  be 
loath  for  it  to  cover  the  heart  of  a  scoundrel.  I 
must  know  who  is  to  wear  it.  " 

"  Well,  then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Niccolo  mio, 
I  want  it  myself,"  said  Tito,  knowing  it  was  use- 
less to  try  persuasion.  "  The  fact  is,  I  am  likely 
to  have  a  journey  to  take,  — and  you  know  what 
journeying  is  in  these  times.  You  don't  suspect 
me  of  treason  against  the  Eepublic  ?  " 

"  No,  I  know  no  harm  of  you, "  said  Niccolo,  in 
his  blunt  way  again.  "  But  have  you  the  money 
to  pay  for  the  coat  ?  For  you  've  passed  my  shop 
often  enough  to  know  my  sign  :  you  've  seen  the 
burning  account-books.  I  trust  nobody.  The 
price  is  twenty  florins,   and  that 's   because   it 's 


54  EOMOLA. 

second  hand.  You  're  not  likely  to  have  so  much 
money  with  you.      Let  it  be  till  to-morrow. " 

"  I  happen  to  have  the  money, "  said  Tito,  who 
had  been  winning  at  play  the  day  before,  and  had 
not  emptied  his  purse.  "  I  '11  carry  the  armour 
home  with  me.  " 

Niccolo  reached  down  the  finely  wrought  coat, 
which  fell  together  into  little  more  than  two 
handfuls. 

"  There,  then, "  he  said,  when  the  florins  had 
been  told  down  on  his  palm.  "  Take  the  coat. 
It 's  made  to  cheat  sword,  or  poniard,  or  arrow. 
But,  for  my  part,  I  would  never  put  such  a  thing 
on.      It 's  like  carrying  fear  about  with  one.  " 

Niccolo 's  words  had  an  unpleasant  intensity  of 
meaning  for  Tito.      But  he  smiled  and  said,  — 

"  Ah,  Niccolo,  we  scholars  are  all  cowards. 
Handling  the  pen  doesn't  thicken  the  arm  as  your 
hammer-wielding  does.     Addio  !  " 

He  folded  the  armour  under  his  mantle,  and 
hastened  across  the  Ponte  Eubaconte. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE   YOUNG  WIFE. 

While  Tito  was  hastening  across  the  bridge  with 
the  new-bought  armour  under  his  mantks  Romohi 
was  pacing  up  and  down  the  old  library,  thinking 
of  him  and  longing  for  his  return. 

It  was  but  a  few  fair  faces  that  had  not  looked 
forth  from  windows  that  day  to  see  the  entrance  of 
the  French  king  and  his  nobles.  One  of  the  few 
was  Romola's.  She  had  been  present  at  no  fes- 
tivities since  her  father  had  died, — died  quite 
suddenly  in  his  chair,   three  months  before. 

"  Is  not  Tito  coming  to  write  ? "  he  had  said, 
when  the  bell  had  long  ago  sounded  the  usual  hour 
in  the  evening.  He  had  not  asked  before,  from 
dread  of  a  negative ;  but  Romola  had  seen  by  his 
listening  face  and  restless  movements  that  nothing 
else  was  in  his  mind. 

"  No,  father,  he  had  to  go  to  a  supper  at  the 
cardinal's:  you  know  he  is  wanted  so  much  by 
every  one, "  she  answered,  in  a  tone  of  gentle 
excuse. 

"  Ah !  then  perhaps  he  will  bring  some  positive 
word  about  the  library ;  the  cardinal  promised  last 
week, "  said  Bardo,  apparently  pacified  by  this 
hope. 

He  was  silent  a  little  while ;  then,  suddenly 
flushing,  he  said,  — 


S6  EOMOLA. 

"  I  must  go  on  without  him,  Eomola.  Get  the 
pen.  He  has  brought  me  no  new  text  to  com- 
ment on ;  but  I  must  say  what  I  want  to  say  about 
the  New  Platonists.  I  shall  die  and  nothing  will 
have  been  done.     Make  haste,  my  Eomola.  " 

"  I  am  ready,  father, "  she  said,  the  next  minute, 
holding  the  pen  in  her  hand. 

But  there  was  silence.  Eomola  took  no  note  of 
this  for  a  little  while,  accustomed  to  pauses  in 
dictation ;  and  when  at  last  she  looked  round  in- 
quiringly,  there  was  no  change  of  attitude. 

"  I  am  quite  ready,  father !  " 

Still  Bardo  was  silent,  and  his  silence  was  never 
again  broken. 

Eomola  looked  back  on  that  hour  with  some  in- 
dignation against  herself,  because  even  with  the 
first  outburst  of  her  sorrow  there  had  mingled  the 
irrepressible  thought,  "  Perhaps  my  life  with  Tito 
will  be  more  perfect  now. " 

For  the  dream  of  a  triple  life  with  an  undivided 
sum  of  happiness  had  not  been  quite  fulfilled.  The 
rainbow-tinted  shower  of  sweets,  to  have  been  per- 
fectly typical,  should  have  had  some  invisible  seeds 
of  bitterness  mingled  with  them ;  the  crowned 
Ariadne,  under  the  snowing  roses,  had  felt  more 
and  more  the  presence  of  unexpected  thorns.  It 
was  not  Tito's  fault,  Eomola  had  continually  as- 
sured herself.  He  was  still  all  gentleness  to  her, 
and  to  her  father  also.  But  it  was  in  the  nature 
of  things, —  she  saw  it  clearly  now, —  it  was  in  the 
nature  of  things  that  no  one  but  herself  could  go  on 
month  after  month,  and  year  after  year,  fulfilling 
patiently  all  her  father's  monotonous,  exacting  de- 
mands. Even  she,  whose  sympathy  with  her  father 
had  made  all  the  passion  and  religion  of  her  young 


THE   YOUNG  WIFE.  57 

years,  had  not  always  been  patient,  had  been  in- 
wardly very  rebellious.  It  was  true  that  before  their 
marriage,  and  even  for  some  time  after,  Tito  had 
seemed  more  unwearying  than  herself;  but  then, 
of  course,  the  effort  had  the  ease  of  novelty.  We 
assume  a  load  with  confident  readiness,  and  up  to 
a  certain  point  the  growing  irksomeness  of  pressure 
is  tolerable ;  but  at  last  the  desire  for  relief  can 
no  longer  be  resisted.  Eomola  said  to  herself  that 
she  had  been  very  foolish  and  ignorant  in  her  girl- 
ish time :  she  was  wiser  now,  and  would  make  no 
unfair  demands  on  the  man  to  whom  she  had 
given  her  best  woman's  love  and  worship.  The 
breath  of  sadness  that  still  cleaved  to  her  lot  while 
she  saw  her  father  month  after  month  sink  from 
elation  into  new  disappointment  as  Tito  gave  him 
less  and  less  of  his  time,  and  made  bland  excuses 
for  not  continuing  his  own  share  of  the  joint  work, 
—  that  sadness  was  no  fault  of  Tito's,  she  said,  but 
rather  of  their  inevitable  destiny.  If  he  stayed 
less  and  less  with  her,  why,  that  was  because  they 
could  hardly  ever  be  alone.  His  caresses  were  no 
less  tender :  if  she  pleaded  timidly  on  any  one 
evening  that  he  should  stay  with  her  father  instead 
of  going  to  another  engagement  which  was  not  per- 
emptory, he  excused  himself  with  such  charming 
gayety,  he  seemed  to  linger  about  her  with  such 
fond  playfulness  before  he  could  quit  her,  that  she 
could  only  feel  a  little  heartache  in  the  midst  of 
her  love,  and  then  go  to  her  father  and  try  to  soften 
his  vexation  and  disappointment.  But  all  the 
while  inwardly  her  imagination  was  busy  trying  to 
see  how  Tito  could  be  as  good  as  she  had  thought  he 
was,  and  yet  find  it  impossible  to  sacrifice  those 
pleasures  of  society   which  were  necessarily  more 


S8  ROMOLA. 

vivid  to  a  bright  creature  like  him  than  to  the 
common  run  of  men.  She  herself  would  have 
liked  more  gayety,  more  admiration :  it  was  true, 
she  gave  it  up  willingly  for  her  father's  sake, —  she 
would  have  given  up  much  more  than  that  for  the 
sake  even  of  a  slight  wish  on  Tito's  part.  It  was 
clear  that  their  natures  differed  widely;  but  per- 
haps it  was  no  more  than  the  inherent  difference 
between  man  and  woman,  that  made  her  affections 
more  absorbing.  If  there  were  any  other  differ- 
ence, she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  the  inferior- 
ity was  on  her  side.  Tito  was  really  kinder  than 
she  was,  better  tempered,  less  proud  and  resentful ; 
he  had  no  angry  retorts,  he  met  all  complaints  with 
perfect  sweetness ;  he  only  escaped  as  quietly  as  he 
could  from  things  that  were  unpleasant. 

It  belongs  to  every  large  nature,  when  it  is  not 
under  the  immediate  power  of  some  strong  unques- 
tioning emotion,  to  suspect  itself,  and  doubt  the 
truth  of  its  own  impressions,  conscious  of  possi- 
bilities beyond  its  own  horizon.  And  Eomola  was 
urged  to  doubt-  herself  the  more  by  the  necessity  of 
interpreting  her  disappointment  in  her  life  with 
Tito  so  as  to  satisfy  at  once  her  love  and  her  pride. 
Disappointment  ?  Yes,  there  was  no  other  milder 
word  that  would  tell  the  truth.  Perhaps  all 
women  had  to  suffer  the  disappointment  of  igno- 
rant hopes,  if  she  only  knew  their  experience. 
Still,  there  had  been  something  peculiar  in  her  lot : 
her  relation  to  her  father  had  claimed  unusual  sac- 
rifices from  her  husband.  Tito  had  once  thought 
that  his  love  would  make  those  sacrifices  easy ;  his 
love  had  not  been  great  enough  for  that.  She  was 
not  justified  in  resenting  a  self-delusion.  No !  re- 
sentment must  not  rise  :  all  endurance  seemed  easy 


THE   YOUNG  WIFE.  59 

to  Eomola  rather  than  a  state  of  mind  in  which  she 
would  admit  to  herself  tliat  Tito  acted  unworthily. 
If  she  had  felt  a  new  heartache  in  the  solitary  hours 
with  her  father  through  the  last  months  of  his  life, 
it  had  been  by  no  inexcusable  fault  of  her  hus- 
band's; and  now  —  it  was  a  hope  that  would  make 
its  presence  felt  even  in  the  first  moments  when 
her  father's  place  was  empty  —  there  was  no  longer 
any  importunate  claim  to  divide  her  from  Tito ; 
their  young  lives  would  tiow  in  one  current,  and 
their  true  marriage  would  begin. 

But  the  sense  of  something  like  guilt  towards 
her  father  in  a  hope  that  grew  out  of  his  death, 
gave  all  the  more  force  to  the  anxiety  with  which 
she  dwelt  on  the  means  of  fulfilling  his  supreme 
wish.  That  piety  towards  his  memory  was  all  the 
atonement  she  could  make  now  for  a  thought  that 
seemed  akin  to  joy  at  his  loss.  The  laborious  sim- 
ple life,  pure  from  vulgar  corrupting  ambitions, 
embittered  by  the  frustration  of  the  dearest  hopes, 
imprisoned  at  last  in  total  darkness, —  a  long  seed- 
time without  a  harvest,  —  was  at  an  end  now,  and 
all  that  remained  of  it  besides  the  tablet  in  Santa 
Croce  and  the  unfinished  commentary  on  Tito's  text, 
was  the  collection  of  manuscripts  and  antiquities, 
the  fruit  of  half  a  century's  toil  and  frugality.  The 
fulfilment  of  her  father's  lifelong  ambition  about 
this  liljrary  was  a  sacramental  obligation  for  Tiomola. 

The  precious  relic  was  safe  from  creditors,  for 
when  tlie  deficit  towards  their  payment  had  been 
ascertained,  Bernardo  del  Nero,  though  he  was  far 
from  being  among  the  wealthiest  Florentines,  had 
advanced  the  necessary  sum  of  about  a  thousand 
florins,  — a  large  sum  in  those  days,  — accepting  a 
lien  on  the  collection  as  a  security. 


6o  ROMOLA. 

"  The  State  will  repay  me, "  he  had  said  to 
Romola,  making  light  of  the  service,  which  had 
really  cost  him  some  inconvenience.  "  If  the  car- 
dinal finds  a  building,  as  he  seems  to  say  he  will, 
our  Signoria  may  consent  to  do  the  rest.  I  have 
no  children,   I  can  afford  the  risk.  " 

But  within  the  last  ten  days  all  hopes  in  the 
Medici  had  come  to  an  end ;  and  the  famous 
Medicean  collections  in  the  Via  Larga  were  them- 
selves in  danger  of  dispersion.  French  agents  had 
already  begun  to  see  that  such  very  fine  antique 
gems  as  Lorenzo  had  collected  belonged  by  right  to 
the  first  nation  in  Europe ;  and  the  Florentine 
State,  which  had  got  possession  of  the  Medicean 
library,  was  likely  to  be  glad  of  a  customer  for 
it.  With  a  war  to  recover  Pisa  hanging  over  it, 
and  with  the  certainty  of  having  to  pay  large  sub- 
sidies to  the  French  king,  the  State  was  likely  to 
prefer  money  to  manuscripts. 

To  Romola  these  grave  political  changes  had 
gathered  their  chief  interest  from  their  bearing  on 
the  fulfilment  of  her  father's  wish.  She  had  been 
brought  up  in  learned  seclusion  from  the  interests 
of  actual  life,  and  had  been  accustomed  to  think  of 
heroic  deeds  and  great  principles  as  something  an- 
tithetic to  the  vulgar  present,  of  the  Pnyx  and  the 
Forum  as  something  more  worthy  of  attention  than 
the  councils  of  living  Florentine  men.  And  now 
the  expulsion  of  the  Medici  meant  little  more  for 
her  than  the  extinction  of  her  best  hope  about  her 
father's  library.  The  times,  she  knew,  were  un- 
pleasant for  friends  of  the  Medici,  like  her  god- 
father and  Tito :  superstitious  shopkeepers  and  the 
stupid  rabble  were  full  of  suspicions  ;  but  her  new 
keen  interest  in  public  events,  in  the  outbreak  of 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE.  6i 

war,  in  the  issue  of  the  French  king's  visit,  in  the 
changes  that  were  likely  to  happen  in  the  State, 
was  kindled  solely  by  the  sense  of  love  and  duty  to 
her  father's  memory.  All  Eomola's  ardour  had 
been  concentrated  in  her  affections.  Her  share 
in  her  father's  learned  pursuits  had  been  for 
her  little  more  than  a  toil  which  was  borne  for 
his  sake;  and  Tito's  airy  brilliant  faculty  had  no 
attraction  for  her  that  was  not  merged  in  the  deeper 
sympathies  that  belong  to  young  love  and  trust. 
Eomola  had  had  contact  with  no  mind  that  could 
stir  the  larger  possibilities  of  her  nature ;  they  lay 
folded  and  crushed  like  embryonic  wings,  making 
no  element  in  her  consciousness  beyond  an  occa- 
sional vague  uneasiness. 

But  this  new  personal  interest  of  hers  in  public 
affairs  had  made  her  care  at  last  to  understand  pre- 
cisely what  influence  Fra  Girolamo's  preaching  was 
likely  to  have  on  the  turn  of  events.  Changes  in  the 
form  of  the  State  were  talked  of,  and  all  she  could 
learn  from  Tito,  whose  secretaryship  and  service- 
able talents  carried  him  into  the  heart  of  public 
business,  made  her  only  the  more  eager  to  fill  out 
her  lonely  day  by  going  to  hear  for  herself  what 
it  was  that  was  just  now  leading  all  Florence  by 
the  ears.  This  morning,  for  the  first  time,  she  had 
been  to  hear  one  of  the  Advent  sermons  in  the 
Duomo.  When  Tito  had  left  her,  she  had  formed 
a  sudden  resolution,  and  after  visiting  the  spot 
where  her  father  was  buried  in  Santa  Croce,  had 
walked  on  to  the  Duomo.  The  memory  of  that 
last  scene  with  Dino  was  still  vivid  within  her 
whenever  she  recalled  it,  but  it  had  receded  behind 
the  experience  and  anxieties  of  her  married  life. 
The  new  sensibilities  and  questions  which  it  had 


62  ROMOLA. 

half  awakened  in  her  were  quieted  again  hy  that 
subjection  to  her  husband's  mind  w^hich  is  felt  by 
every  wife  who  loves  her  husband  with  passionate 
devotedness  and  full  reliance.  She  remembered 
the  effect  of  Fra  Girolamo's  voice  and  presence  on 
her  as  a  ground  for  expecting  that  his  sermon 
might  move  her  in  spite  of  his  being  a  narrow- 
minded  monk.  But  the  sermon  did  no  more  than 
slightly  deepen  her  previous  impression,  that  this 
fanatical  preacher  of  tribulations  was  after  all  a 
man  towards  whom  it  might  be  possible  for  her  to 
feel  personal  regard  and  reverence.  The  denuncia- 
tions and  exhortations  simply  arrested  her  atten- 
tion. She  felt  no  terror,  no  pangs  of  conscience : 
it  was  the  roll  of  distant  thunder,  that  seemed 
grand,  but  could  not  shake  her.  But  when  she 
heard  Savonarola  invoke  martyrdom,  she  sobbed 
with  the  rest:  she  felt  herself  penetrated  with  a 
new  sensation,  —  a  strange  sympathy  with  some- 
thing apart  from  all  the  definable  interests  of  her 
life.  It  was  not  altogether  unlike  the  thrill  which 
had  accompanied  certain  rare  heroic  touches  in 
history  and  poetry ;  but  the  resemblance  was  as 
that  between  the  memory  of  music,  and  the  sense 
of  being  possessed  by  actual  vibrating  harmonies. 

But  that  transient  emotion,  strong  as  it  was, 
seemed  to  lie  quite  outside  the  inner  chamber  and 
sanctuary  of  her  life.  She  was  not  thinking  of  Fra 
Girolamo  now ;  she  was  listening  anxiously  for  the 
step  of  her  husband.  During  these  three  months 
of  their  double  solitude  she  had  thought  of  each 
day  as  an  epoch  in  which  their  union  might  begin 
to  be  more  perfect.  She  was  conscious  of  being 
sometimes  a  little  too  sad  or  too  urgent  about  what 
concerned  her  father's  memory,  — a  little  too  crit- 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE.  63 

ical  or  coldly  silent  when  Tito  narrated  the  things 
that  were  said  and  done  in  the  world  he  frequented, 
—  a  little  too  hasty  in  suggesting  that  by  living 
quite  simply,  as  her  father  had  done,  they  might 
become  rich  enough  to  pay  Bernardo  del  Xero,  and 
reduce  the  difficulties  about  the  library.  It  was 
not  possible  that  Tito  could  feel  so  strongly  on  this 
last  point  as  she  did,  and  it  was  asking  a  great 
deal  from  him  to  give  up  luxuries  for  which  he 
really  laboured.  The  next  time  Tito  came  home 
she  would  be  careful  to  suppress  all  those  prompt- 
ings that  seemed  to  isolate  her  from  him.  Romola 
was  labouring,  as  a  loving  woman  must,  to  subdue 
her  nature  to  her  husband's.  The  great  need  of 
her  heart  compelled  her  to  strangle,  with  desperate 
resolution,  every  rising  impulse  of  suspicion,  pride, 
and  resentment;  she  felt  equal  to  any  self-inflic- 
tion that  would  save  her  from  ceasing  to  love. 
That  would  have  been  like  the  hideous  nightmare 
in  which  the  world  had  seemed  to  break  away  all 
round  her,  and  leave  her  feet  overhanging  the 
darkness.  Romola  had  never  distinctly  imagined 
such  a  future  for  herself;  she  was  only  beginning 
to  feel  the  presence  of  eflbrt  in  that  clinging  trust 
which  had  once  been  mere  repose. 

She  waited  and  listened  long,  for  Tito  had  not 
come  straight  home  after  leaving  Niccolo  Caparra, 
and  it  was  more  than  two  hours  after  the  time 
when  he  was  crossing  the  Ponte  Rubaconte  that 
Romola  heard  the  great  door  of  the  court  turning 
on  its  hinges,  and  hastened  to  the  head  of  the  stone 
steps.  There  was  a  lamp  hanging  over  the  stairs, 
and  they  could  see  each  other  distinctly  as  he  as- 
cended. The  eighteen  months  had  produced  a 
more  definable  change  in  Romola 's  face  than  in 


64  ROMOLA. 

Tito's  :  the  expression  was  more  subdued,  less  cold, 
aud  more  beseeching ;  and  as  the  pink  flush  over- 
spread her  face  now,  in  her  joy  that  the  long  wait- 
ings was  at  an  end,  she  was  much  lovelier  than  on 
the  day  when  Tito  had  first  seen  her.  On  that 
day  any  on-looker  would  have  said  that  Romola's 
nature  was  made  to  command,  and  Tito's  to  bend; 
yet  now  Eomola's  mouth  was  quivering  a  little, 
and  there  was  some  timidity  in  her  glance. 

He  made  an  effort  to  smile,  as  she  said,  — ^ 

"  My  Tito,  you  are  tired ;  it  has  been  a  fatiguing 
day  :  is  it  not  true  ?  " 

Maso  was  there,  and  no  more  was  said  until  they 
had  crossed  the  antechamber  and  closed  the  door 
of  the  library  behind  them.  The  wood  was  burn- 
ing brightly  on  the  great  dogs ;  that  was  one  wel- 
come for  Tito,  late  as  he  was,  and  Romola's  gentle 
voice  was  another. 

He  just  turned  and  kissed  her  when  she  took 
off  his  mantle  ;  then  he  went  towards  a  high-backed 
chair  placed  for  him  near  the  fire,  threw  himself 
into  it,  and  flung  away  his  cap,  saying,  not  peev- 
ishly, but  in  a  fatigued  tone  of  remonstrance,  as 
he  gave  a  slight  shudder,  — 

"  Romola,  I  wish  you  would  give  up  sitting  in 
this  library.  Surely  our  own  rooms  are  pleasanter 
in  this  chill  weather.  " 

Romola  felt  hurt.  She  had  never  seen  Tito  so 
indifferent  in  his  manner ;  he  was  usually  full  of 
lively  solicitous  attention.  And  she  had  thought 
so  much  of  his  return  to  her  after  the  long  day's 
absence !     He  must  be  very  weary. 

"  I  wonder  you  have  forgotten,  Tito, "  she  an- 
swered, looking  at  him  anxiously,  as  if  she  wanted 
to  read  an  excuse  for  him  in  the  signs  of  bodily 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE.  65 

fatigue.  "  You  know  I  am  making  the  catalogue  on 
the  new  plan  that  my  father  wished  for ;  you  have 
not  time  to  help  me,  so  I  must  work  at  it  closely. " 

Tito,  instead  of  meeting  Romola's  glance,  closed 
his  eyes  and  rubbed  his  hands  over  his  face  and 
hair.  He  felt  he  was  behaving  unlike  himself,  but 
he  would  make  amends  to-morrow.  The  terrible 
resurrection  of  secret  fears,  which  if  Eomola  had 
known  them  would  have  alienated  her  from  him 
forever,  caused  him  to  feel  an  alienation  already 
begun  between  them, —  caused  him  to  feel  a  certain 
repulsion  towards  a  woman  from  whose  mind  he 
was  in  danger.  The  feeling  had  taken  hold  of  him 
unawares,  and  he  was  vexed  with  himself  for  be- 
having in  this  new  cold  way  to  her.  He  could  not 
suddenly  command  any  affectionate  looks  or  words ; 
he  could  only  exert  himself  to  say  what  might 
serve  as  an  excuse. 

"  I  am  not  well,  Romola ;  you  must  not  be  sur- 
prised if  I  am  peevish. " 

"  Ah,  you  have  had  so  much  to  tire  you  to-day, " 
said  Romola,  kneeling  down  close  to  him,  and  lay- 
ing her  arm  on  his  chest  while  she  put  his  hair 
back  caressingly. 

Suddenly  she  drew  her  arm  away  with  a  start, 
and  a  gaze  of  alarmed  inquiry. 

"  What  have  you  got  under  your  tunic,  Tito  ? 
Something  as  hard  as  iron.  " 

"  It  is  iron,  —  it  is  chain-armour, "  he  said  at 
once.  He  was  prepared  for  the  surprise  and  the 
question,  and  he  spoke  quietly,  as  of  something 
that  he  was  not  hurried  to  explain. 

"  There  was  some  unexpected  danger  to-day, 
then  ? "  said  Romola,  in  a  tone  of  conjecture. 
"  You  had  it  lent  to  you  for  the  procession  ? " 

VOL.  II.  —  5 


66  ROMOLA. 

"  No ;  it  is  my  own.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  wear 
it  constantly  for  some  time.  " 

"  What  is  it  that  threatens  you,  my  Tito  ?  "  said 
Eomola,  looking  terrified,  and  clinging  to  him 
again. 

"  Every  one  is  threatened  in  these  times,  who  is 
not  a  rabid  enemy  of  the  Medici.  Don't  look  dis- 
tressed, my  Eomola,  —  this  armour  will  make  me 
safe  against  covert  attacks. " 

Tito  put  his  hand  on  her  neck  and  smiled.  This 
little  dialogue  about  the  armour  had  broken  through 
the  new  crust,  and  made  a  channel  for  the  sweet 
habit  of  kindness. 

"  But  my  godfather,  then, "  said  Eomola ;  "  is  not 
he,  too,  in  danger  ?  And  he  takes  no  precautions, 
—  ought  he  not  ?  since  he  must  surely  be  in  more 
danger  than  you,  who  have  so  little  influence  com- 
pared with  him.  " 

"  It  is  just  because  I  am  less  important  that  I  am 
in  more  danger, "  said  Tito,  readily.  "  I  am  sus- 
pected constantly  of  being  an  envoy.  And  men 
like  Messer  Bernardo  are  protected  by  their  posi- 
tion and  their  extensive  family  connections,  which 
spread  among  all  parties,  while  I  am  a  Greek  that 
nobody  would  avenge. " 

"  But,  Tito,  is  it  a  fear  of  some  particular  per- 
son, or  only  a  vague  sense  of  danger,  that  has  made 
you  think  of  wearing  this  ?  "  Eomola  was  unable 
to  repel  the  idea  of  a  degrading  fear  in  Tito,  which 
mingled  itself  with  her  anxiety. 

"  I  have  had  special  threats, "  said  Tito,  "  but  I 
must  beg  you  to  be  silent  on  the  subject,  my 
Eomola.  I  shall  consider  that  you  have  broken 
my  confidence,  if  you  mention  it  to  your  god- 
father. " 


THE   YOUNG  WIFE.  67 

"  Assuredly  I  will  not  mention  it, "  said  Romola, 
blushing,  "  if  you  wish  it  to  be  a  secret.  But, 
dearest  Tito, "  she  added,  after  a  moment's  pause,  in 
a  tone  of  loving  anxiety,  "  it  will  make  you  very 
wretched. " 

"  What  will  make  me  wretched  ? "  he  said, 
with  a  scarcely  perceptible  movement  across  his 
face,  as  from  some  darting  sensation. 

"This  fear, — this  heavy  armour.  I  can't  help 
shuddering  as  I  feel  it  under  my  arm.  I  could 
fancy  it  a  story  of  enchantment, — that  some  malig- 
nant fiend  had  changed  your  sensitive  human  skin 
into  a  hard  shell.  It  seems  so  unlike  my  bright, 
light-hearted  Tito !  " 

"  Then  you  would  rather  have  your  husband  ex- 
posed to  danger,  when  he  leaves  you  ?  "  said  Tito, 
smiling.  "  If  you  don't  mind  my  being  poniarded 
or  shot,  why  need  I  mind  ?  I  will  give  up  the 
armour,  —  shall  I  ?  " 

"  No,  Tito,  no.  I  am  fanciful.  Do  not  heed 
what  I  have  said.  But  such  crimes  are  surely  not 
common  in  Florence  ?  I  have  always  heard  my 
father  and  godfather  say  so.  Have  they  become 
frequent  lately  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  unlikely  they  will  become  frequent, 
with  the  bitter  hatreds  that  are  being  bred  con- 
tinually. " 

Romola  was  silent  a  few  moments.  She  shrank 
from  insisting  further  on  the  subject  of  the  armour. 
She  tried  to  shake  it  of!". 

"  Tell  me  what  has  happened  to-day, "  she  said, 
in  a  cheerful  tone.     "  Has  all  gone  off  well  ?  " 

"  Excellently  well.  First  of  all,  the  rain  came 
and  put  an  end  to  Luca  Corsini's  oration,  which 
nobody  wanted  to  hear,  and  a  ready-tongued  per- 


68  ROMOLA. 

sonage  —  some  say  it  was  Gaddi,  some  say  it  was 
Melema,  but  really  it  was  done  so  quickly  no  one 
knows  who  it  was  —  had  the  honour  of  giving  the 
Cristianissimo  the  briefest  possible  welcome  in 
bad  French. " 

"  Tito,  it  was  you,  I  know, "  said  Eomola,  smiling 
brightly  and  kissing  him.  "  How  is  it  you  never 
care  about  claiming  anything  ?   And  after  that  ?  " 

"  Oh !  after  that,  there  was  a  shower  of  armour 
and  jewels,  and  trappings,  such  as  you  saw  at  the 
last  Florentine  giostra,  only  a  great  deal  more  of 
them.  There  was  strutting,  and  prancing,  and 
confusion,  and  scrambling,  and  the  people  shouted, 
and  the  Cristianissimo  smiled  from  ear  to  ear. 
And  after  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  flattery, 
and  eating,  and  play.  I  was  at  Tornabuoni's.  I 
will  tell  you  about  it  to-morrow.  " 

"  Yes,  dearest,  never  mind  now.  But  is  there 
any  more  hope  that  things  will  end  peaceably  for 
Florence,  that  the  Eepublic  will  not  get  into  fresh 
troubles  ?  " 

Tito  gave  a  shrug.  "  Florence  will  have  no 
peace  but  what  it  pays  well  for ;  that  is  clear.  " 

Eomola's  face  saddened,  but  she  checked  her- 
self, and  said  cheerfully :  "  You  would  not  guess 
where  I  went  to-day,  Tito.  I  went  to  the  Duomo, 
to  hear  Fra  Girolamo.  " 

Tito  looked  startled,  — he  had  immediately 
thought  of  Baldassarre's  entrance  into  the  Duomo; 
but  Romola  gave  his  look  another  meaning. 

"  You  are  surprised,  are  you  not  ?  It  was  a  sud- 
den thought.  I  want  to  know  all  about  the  public 
affairs  now,  and  I  determined  to  hear  for  myself 
what  the  Frate  promised  the  people  about  this 
French  invasion. " 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE.  69 

"  Well,  and  what  did  you  think  of  the  prophet?" 

"  He  certainly  has  a  very  mysterious  power,  that 
man.  A  great  deal  of  his  sermon  was  what  I  ex- 
pected ;  but  once  I  was  strangely  moved,  —  I  sobbed 
with  the  rest. " 

"  Take  care,  Eomola, "  said  Tito,  playfully,  feel- 
ing relieved  that  she  had  said  nothing  about  Bal- 
dassarre ;  "  you  have  a  touch  of  fanaticism  in  you. 
I  shall  have  you  seeing  visions,  like  your  brother. " 

"  No ;  it  was  the  same  with  every  one  else.  He 
carried  them  all  with  him ;  unless  it  were  that 
gross  Dolfo  Spini,  whom  I  saw  there  making  gri- 
maces. There  was  even  a  wretched-looking  man, 
with  a  rope  round  his  neck,  —  an  escaped  prisoner, 
I  should  think,  who  had  run  in  for  shelter,  —  a 
very  wild-eyed  old  man :  I  saw  him  with  great 
tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  as  he  looked  and 
listened  quite  eagerly. " 

There  was  a  slight  pause  before  Tito  spoke. 

"  I  saw  the  man,"  he  said,  — "  the  prisoner.  I 
was  outside  the  Duomo  with  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni 
when  he  ran  in.  He  had  escaped  from  a  French 
soldier.     Did  you  see  him  when  you  came  out  ?  " 

"  No,  he  went  out  with  our  good  old  Piero  di 
Cos i mo.  I  saw  Piero  come  in  and  cut  off'  his  rope, 
and  take  him  out  of  the  church.  But  you  want 
rest,  Tito  ?     You  feel  ill  ? " 

"  Yes, "  said  Tito,  rising.  The  horrible  sense 
that  he  must  live  in  continual  dread  of  what  Bal- 
dassarre  had  said  or  done  pressed  upon  him  like  a 
cold  weight 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

THE   PAINTED   KECORD. 

Four  days  later,  Komola  was  on  her  way  to  the 
house  of  Piero  di  Cosimo,  in  the  Via  Gualfonda. 
Some  of  the  streets  through  which  she  had  to  pass 
were  lined  with  Frenchmen  who  were  gazing  at 
Florence,  and  with  Florentines  who  were  gazing  at 
the  French,  and  the  gaze  was  not  on  either  side  en- 
tirely friendly  and  admiring.  The  first  nation  in 
Europe,  of  necessity  finding  itself,  when  out  of  its 
own  country,  in  the  presence  of  general  inferiority, 
naturally  assumed  an  air  of  conscious  pre-eminence  ; 
and  the  Florentines,  who  had  taken  such  pains  to 
play  the  host  amiably,  were  getting  into  the  worst 
humour  with  their  too  superior  guests. 

For  after  the  first  smiling  compliments  and  fes- 
tivities were  over,  —  after  wondrous  Mysteries 
with  unrivalled  machinery  of  floating  clouds  and 
angels  had  been  presented  in  churches,  —  after  the 
royal  guest  had  honoured  Florentine  dames  with 
much  of  his  Most  Christian  ogling  at  balls  and 
suppers,  and  business  had  begun  to  be  talked  of,  — 
it  appeared  that  the  new  Charlemagne  regarded 
Florence  as  a  conquered  city,  inasmuch  as  he  had 
entered  it  with  his  lance  in  rest,  talked  of  leaving 
his  viceroy  behind  him,  and  had  thoughts  of  bring- 
ing back  the  Medici.  Singular  logic  this  appeared 
to  be  on  the  part  of  an  elect  instrument  of  God! 


THE  PAINTED  RECORD.  71 

since  the  policy  of  Piero  de'  Medici,  disowned  by 
the  people,  had  been  the  only  offence  of  Florence 
against  the  majesty  of  France.  And  Florence  was 
determined  not  to  submit.  The  determination  was 
being  expressed  very  strongly  in  consultations  of 
citizens  inside  the  Old  Palace,  and  it  was  begin- 
ning to  show  itself  on  the  broad  flags  of  the  streets 
and  piazza  wherever  there  was  an  opportunity  of 
flouting  an  insolent  Frenchman.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances the  streets  were  not  altogether  a  pleas- 
ant promenade  for  well-born  women ;  but  Eomola, 
shrouded  in  her  black  veil  and  mantle,  and  with 
old  Maso  by  her  side,  felt  secure  enough  from  im- 
pertinent observation. 

And  she  was  impatient  to  visit  Piero  di  Cosimo. 
A  copy  of  her  father's  portrait  as  (Edipus,  which 
he  had  long  ago  undertaken  to  make  for  her,  was 
not  yet  finished ;  and  Piero  was  so  uncertain  in  his 
work  —  sometimes,  when  the  demand  was  not  per- 
emptory, laying  aside  a  picture  for  months ;  some- 
times thrusting  it  into  a  corner  or  coffer,  where  it 
was  likely  to  be  utterly  forgotten  —  that  slie  felt  it 
necessary  to  watch  over  his  progress.  She  was  a 
favourite  with  the  painter,  and  he  was  inclined  to 
fulfil  any  wish  of  hers,  but  no  general  inclination 
could  be  trusted  as  a  safeguard  against  his  sudden 
whims.  He  had  told  her  the  week  before  that  the 
picture  would  perhaps  be  finished  by  this  time ; 
and  Romola  was  nervously  anxious  to  have  in  her 
possession  a  copy  of  tlie  only  portrait  existing  of 
her  father  in  the  days  of  his  blindness,  lest  his 
image  should  grow  dim  in  her  mind.  Tlie  sense 
of  defect  in  her  devotedness  to  him  made  her  cling 
with  all  the  force  of  compunction  as  well  as  afl'ec- 
tion  to  the  duties  of  memory.     Love  does  not  aim 


72  ROMOLA. 

simply  at  the  conscious  good  of  the  beloved  object : 
it  is  not  satisfied  without  perfect  loyalty  of  heart ; 
it  aims  at  its  own  completeness. 

Eomola,  by  special  favour,  was  allowed  to  in- 
trude upon  the  painter  without  previous  notice. 
She  lifted  the  iron  slide  and  called  Piero  in  a  flute- 
like  tone,  as  the  little  maiden  with  the  eggs  had 
done  in  Tito's  presence.  Piero  was  quick  in  an- 
swering, but  when  he  opened  the  door  he  accounted 
for  his  quickness  in  a  manner  that  was  not  com- 
plimentary. 

"  Ah,  Madonna  Eomola,  is  it  you  ?  I  thought 
my  eggs  were  come ;  I  wanted  them. " 

"  I  have  brought  you  something  better  than  hard 
eggs,  Piero.  Maso  has  got  a  little  basket  full  of 
cakes  and  confetti  for  you, "  said  Eomola,  smiling, 
as  she  put  back  her  veil.  She  took  the  basket  from 
Maso,  and  stepping  into  the  house,  said,  — 

"  I  know  you  like  these  things  when  you  can 
have  them  without  trouble.      Confess  you  do. " 

"  Yes,  when  they  come  to  me  as  easily  as  the 
light  does, "  said  Piero,  folding  his  arms  and  look- 
ing down  at  the  sweetmeats  as  Eomola  uncovered 
them  and  glanced  at  him  archly. 

"  And  they  are  come  along  with  the  light  now, " 
he  added,  lifting  his  eyes  to  her  face  and  hair  with 
a  painter's  admiration,  as  her  hood,  dragged  by  the 
weight  of  her  veil,  fell  backward. 

"  But  I  know  what  the  sweetmeats  are  for, "  he 
went  on ;  "  they  are  to  stop  my  mouth  while  you 
scold  me.  Well,  go  on  into  the  next  room,  and 
you  will  see  I  've  done  something  to  the  picture 
since  you  saw  it,  though  it 's  not  finished  yet. 
But  I  didn't  promise,  you  know:  I  take  care  not 
to  promise : 


THE  PAINTED  RECORD.  73 

*  Chi  promette  e  non  mantiene 
L'aniiua  sua  non  va  mai  bene.'  " 

The  door  opening  on  the  wild  garden  was  closed 
now,  and  the  painter  was  at  work.  Not  at  Komola's 
picture,  however.  That  was  standing  on  the  floor, 
propped  against  the  wall ;  and  Piero  stooped  to  lift 
it,  that  he  might  carry  it  into  the  proper  light. 
But  in  lifting  away  this  picture,  he  had  disclosed 
another,  —  the  oil-sketch  of  Tito,  to  which  he  had 
made  an  important  addition  within  the  last  few 
days.  It  was  so  much  smaller  than  the  other  pic- 
ture, that  it  stood  far  within  it ;  and  Piero,  apt  to 
forget  where  he  had  placed  anything,  was  not 
aware  of  what  he  had  revealed  as,  peering  at  some 
detail  in  the  painting  which  he  held  in  his  hands, 
he  went  to  place  it  on  an  easel.  But  Eomola  ex- 
claimed, flushing  with  astonishment,  — 

"  That  is  Tito !  " 

Piero  looked  round,  and  gave  a  silent  shrug. 
He  was  vexed  at  his  own  forgetfulness. 

She  was  still  looking  at  the  sketch  in  astonish- 
ment ;  but  presently  she  turned  towards  the  painter, 
and  said  with  puzzled  alarm,  — 

"  What  a  strange  picture !  When  did  you  paint 
it  ?     What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  A  mere  fancy  of  mine, "  said  Piero,  lifting  off 
his  skull-cap,  scratching  his  head,  and  making  the 
usual  grimace  by  which  he  avoided  the  betrayal 
of  any  feeling.  "  I  wanted  a  handsome  young  face 
for  it,  and  your  husband's  was  just  the  thing. " 

He  went  forward,  stooped  down  to  the  picture,  and 
lifting  it  away  with  its  back  to  Eomola,  pretended 
to  be  giving  it  a  passing  examination,  before  putting 
it  aside  as  a  thing  not  good  enough  to  show. 

But  Eomola,  who  had  the  fact  of  the  armour  in 


74  ROMOLA. 

her  mind,  and  was  penetrated  by  this  strange  coin- 
cidence of  things  which  associated  Tito  with  the 
idea  of  fear,  went  to  his  elbow  and  said,  — 

"Don't  put  it  away;  let  me  look  again.  That 
man  with  the  rope  round  his  neck  —  I  saw  him  —  I 
saw  you  come  to  him  in  the  Duomo.  What  was  it 
that  made  you  put  him  into  a  picture  with  Tito?" 

Piero  saw  no  better  resource  than  to  tell  part  of 
the  truth. 

"  It  was  a  mere  accident.  The  man  was  running 
away,  — running  up  the  steps,  and  caught  hold  of 
your  husband  :  I  suppose  he  had  stumbled.  I  hap- 
pened to  be  there,  and  saw  it,  and  I  thought  the 
savage-looking  old  fellow  was  a  good  subject.  But 
it 's  worth  nothing,  — it 's  only  a  freakish  daub  of 
mine. "  Piero  ended  contemptuously,  moving  the 
sketch  away  with  an  air  of  decision,  and  putting  it 
on  a  high  shelf.      "  Come  and  look  at  the  CEdipus.  " 

He  had  shown  a  little  too  much  anxiety  in  putting 
the  sketch  out  of  her  sight,  and  had  produced  the 
very  impression  he  had  sought  to  prevent,  —  that 
there  was  really  something  unpleasant,  something 
disadvantageous  to  Tito,  in  the  circumstances  out 
of  which  the  picture  arose.  But  this  impression 
silenced  her:  her  pride  and  delicacy  shrank  from 
questioning  further,  where  questions  might  seem  to 
imply  that  she  could  entertain  even  a  slight  suspi- 
cion against  her  husband.  She  merely  said,  in  as 
quiet  a  tone  as  she  could,  — 

"  He  was  a  strange,  piteous-looking  man,  that 
prisoner.     Do  you  know  anything  more  of  him  ?  " 

"  No  more :  I  showed  him  the  way  to  the  hos- 
pital, that 's  all.  See,  now,  the  face  of  CEdipus 
is  pretty  nearly  finished ;  tell  me  what  you  think 
of  it. " 


THE  PAINTED   RECORD.  75 

Romola  now  gave  her  whole  attention  to  her 
father's  portrait,  standing  in  long  silence  before  it. 

"  Ah, "  she  said  at  last,  "  you  have  done  what  I 
wanted.  You  have  given  it  more  of  the  listening 
look.  My  good  Piero, "  — she  turned  towards  him 
with  bright  moist  eyes,  —  "I  am  very  grateful  to 
you. " 

"  Now  that 's  what  I  can't  bear  in  you  women," 
said  Piero,  turning  impatiently,  and  kicking  aside 
the  objects  that  littered  the  floor,  — "you  are  al- 
ways pouring  out  feelings  where  there  's  no  call 
for  them.  Why  should  you  be  grateful  to  me  for 
a  picture  you  pay  me  for,  especially  when  I  make 
you  wait  for  it  ?  And  if  I  paint  a  picture,  I  sup- 
pose it 's  for  my  own  pleasure  and  credit  to  paint 
it  well,  eh  ?  Are  you  to  thank  a  man  for  not  being 
a  rogue  or  a  noodle  ?  It 's  enough  if  he  himself 
thanks  Messer  Domeneddio,  who  has  made  him 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  But  women  think 
walls  are  held  together  with  honey. " 

"  You  crusty  Piero !  I  forgot  how  snappish  you 
are.  Here,  put  this  nice  sweetmeat  in  your 
mouth, "  said  Romola,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
and  taking  something  very  crisp  and  sweet  from 
the    little  basket. 

Piero  accepted  it  very  much  as  that  proverbial 
bear  that  dreams  of  pears  miglit  accept  an  exceed- 
ingly mellow  "  swan-egg,"  — really  liking  the  gift, 
but  accustomed  to  have  his  pleasures  and  pains 
concealed  under  a  shaggy  coat. 

"  It 's  good,  Madonna  Antigone, "  said  Piero, 
putting  his  fingers  in  the  basket  for  another.  He 
had  eaten  nothing  but  hard  eggs  for  a  fortnight 
Romola  stood  opposite  him,  feeling  her  new  anxiety 
suspended  for  a  little  while  by  the  sight  of  this 
naive  enjoyment 


76  ROMOLA. 

"  Good-by,  Piero, "  she  said  presently,  setting 
down  the  basket.  "  I  promise  not  to  thank  you  if 
you  finish  the  portrait  soon  and  well.  I  will  tell 
you,  you  were  bound  to  do  it  for  your  own  credit.  " 

"  Good, "  said  Piero,  curtly,  helping  her  with 
much  deftness  to  fold  her  mantle  and  veil  round 
her. 

"  I  'm  glad  she  asked  no  more  questions  about 
that  sketch, "  he  thought,  when  he  had  closed  the 
door  behind  her.  "  I  should  be  sorry  for  her  to 
guess  that  I  thought  her  fine  husband  a  good  model 
for  a  coward.  But  I  made  light  of  it;  she  '11  not 
think  of  it  again.  " 

Piero  was  too  sanguine,  as  open-hearted  men  are 
apt  to  be  when  they  attempt  a  little  clever  simula- 
tion. The  thought  of  the  picture  pressed  more  and 
more  on  Eomola  as  she  walked  homeward.  She 
could  not  help  putting  together  the  two  facts  of 
the  chain-armour  and  the  encounter  mentioned  by 
Piero  between  her  husband  and  the  prisoner,  which 
had  happened  on  the  morning  of  the  day  when  the 
armour  was  adopted.  That  look  of  terror  which 
the  painter  had  given  Tito,  had  he  seen  it  ?  What 
could  it  all  mean  ? 

"  It  means  nothing, "  she  tried  to  assure  herself. 
"  It  was  a  mere  coincidence.  Shall  I  ask  Tito 
about  it  ?  "  Her  mind  said  at  last,  "  No :  I  will 
not  question  him  about  anything  he  did  not  tell 
me  spontaneously.  It  is  an  offence  against  the 
trust  I  owe  him."  Her  heart  said,  "I  dare  not 
ask  him. " 

There  was  a  terrible  flaw  in  the  trust :  she  was 
afraid  of  any  hasty  movement,  as  men  are  who  hold 
something  precious  and  want  to  believe  that  it  is 
not  broken. 


CHAPTEE   IX. 

A  MOMENT   OF   TRIUMPH. 

"  The  old  fellow  has  vanished ;  went  on  towards 
Arezzo  the  next  morning ;  not  liking  the  smell  of 
the  French,  I  suppose,  after  being  their  prisoner. 
I  went  to  the  hospital  to  inquire  after  him ;  I 
wanted  to  know  if  those  broth-making  monks  had 
found  out  whether  he  was  in  his  right  mind  or  not. 
However,  they  said  he  showed  no  signs  of  madness, 
—  only  took  no  notice  of  questions,  and  seemed  to 
be  planting  a  vine  twenty  miles  off.  He  was  a 
mysterious  old  tiger.  I  should  have  liked  to  know 
something  more  about  him.  " 

It  was  in  Nello's  shop  that  Piero  di  Cosimo  was 
speaking,  on  the  24th  of  November,  just  a  week 
after  the  entrance  of  the  French.  There  was  a 
party  of  six  or  seven  assembled  at  the  rather  un- 
usual hour  of  three  in  the  afternoon ;  for  it  was  a 
day  on  which  all  Florence  was  excited  by  the  pros- 
pect of  some  decisive  political  event.  Every  loung- 
ing-place  was  full,  and  every  shopkeeper  who  had 
no  wife  or  de})uty  to  leave  in  charge,  stood  at  his 
door  with  his  thumbs  in  his  belt ;  while  the  streets 
were  constantly  sprinkled  with  artisans  pausing  or 
passing  lazily  like  floating  splinters,  ready  to  rush 
forward  impetuously  if  any  object  attracted  them. 

Nello  had  been  thrumming  the  lute  as  he  half  sat 
on  the  board  against  the  shop-window,  and  kept 
an  outlook  towards  the  piazza. 


78  ROMOLA. 

"  Ah, "  he  said,  laying  down  the  lute,  with  em- 
phasis, "  I  would  not  for  a  gold  florin  have  missed 
that  sight  of  the  French  soldiers  waddling  in  their 
broad  shoes  after  their  runaway  prisoners !  That 
comes  of  leaving  my  shop  to  shave  magnificent 
chins.  It  is  always  so :  if  ever  I  quit  this  navel 
of  the  earth,  something  takes  the  opportunity  of 
happening  in  my  piazza. " 

"  Yes,  you  ought  to  have  been  there, "  said  Piero, 
in  his  biting  way,  "  just  to  see  your  favourite  Greek 
look  as  frightened  as  if  Satanasso  had  laid  hold  of 
him.  I  like  to  see  your  ready-smiling  Messeri 
caught  in  a  sudden  wind  and  obliged  to  show  their 
lining  in  spite  of  themselves.  What  colour  do  you 
think  a  man's  liver  is,  who  looks  like  a  bleached 
deer  as  soon  as  a  chance  stranger  lays  hold  of  him 
suddenly  ? " 

"  Piero,  keep  that  vinegar  of  thine  as  sauce  to 
thine  own  eggs !  What  is  it  against  my  hel  erudito 
that  he  looked  startled  when  he  felt  a  pair  of  claws 
upon  him  and  saw  an  unchained  madman  at  his 
elbow  ?  Your  scholar  is  not  like  those  beastly 
Swiss  and  Germans,  whose  heads  are  only  fit  for 
battering-rams,  and  who  have  such  large  appetites 
that  they  think  nothing  of  taking  a  cannon-ball 
before  breakfast.  We  Florentines  count  some  other 
qualities  in  a  man  besides  that  vulgar  stuff  called 
bravery,  which  is  to  be  got  by  hiring  dunderheads 
at  so  much  per  dozen.  I  tell  you,  as  soon  as  men 
found  out  that  they  had  more  brains  than  oxen, 
they  set  the  oxen  to  draw  for  them ;  and  when  we 
Florentines  found  out  that  we  had  more  brains  than 
other  men,  we  set  them  to  fight  for  us.  " 

"  Treason,  Nello !  "  a  voice  called  out  from  the 
inner  sanctum ;  "  that  is  not  the  doctrine  of  the 
State.       Florence   is   grinding    its   weapons ;    and 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH.  79 

the  last  well-authenticated  vision  announced  by  the 
Frate  was  Mars  standing  on  the  Palazzo  Vecchio 
with  his  arm  on  the  shoulder  of  San  Giovanni  Bat- 
tista,  who  was  oftering  him  a  piece  of  honeycomb.  " 

"  It  is  well,  Francesco, "  said  Nello.  "  Florence 
has  a  few  thicker  skulls  that  may  do  to  bombard 
Pisa  with ;  there  will  still  be  the  finer  spirits  left 
at  home  to  do  the  thinking  and  the  shaving.  And 
as  for  our  Piero  here,  if  he  makes  such  a  point  of 
valour,  let  him  carry  his  biggest  brush  for  a  weapon 
and  his  palette  for  a  shield,  and  challenge  the 
widest-mouthed  Swiss  he  can  see  in  the  Prato  to 
a  single  combat.  " 

"  Va,  Nello, "  growled  Piero,  "  thy  tongue  runs 
on  as  usual,  like  a  mill  when  the  Arno  's  full,  — 
whether  there  's  grist  or  not.  " 

"  E.Kcellent  grist,  I  tell  thee.  For  it  would  be 
as  reasonable  to  e.xpect  a  grizzled  painter  like  thee 
to  be  fond  of  getting  a  javelin  inside  thee  as  to  ex- 
pect a  man  whose  wits  have  been  sharpened  on  the 
classics  to  like  having  his  handsome  face  clawed 
by  a  wild  beast. " 

"  There  you  go,  supposing  you  '11  get  people  to 
put  their  legs  into  a  sack  because  you  call  it  a  pair 
of  hosen, "  said  Piero.  "  Who  said  anything  about 
a  wild  beast,  or  about  an  unarmed  man  rushing  on 
battle  ?  Fighting  is  a  trade,  and  it 's  not  my 
trade.  I  should  be  a  fool  to  run  after  danger,  but 
I  could  face  it  if  it  came  to  me. " 

"  How  is  it  you  're  so  afraid  of  the  thunder,  then, 
my  Piero  ?  "  said  Nello,  determined  to  chase  down 
the  accuser.  "  You  ought  to  be  able  to  understand 
why  one  man  is  shaken  by  a  thing  that  seems  a 
trifle  to  others,  — you  who  hide  y(jurself  with  the 
rats  as  soon  as  a  storm  comes  on. " 


8o  ROMOLA. 

"  That  is  because  I  have  a  particular  sensibility 
to  loud  sounds ;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  cour- 
age or  my  conscience. " 

"  Well,  and  Tito  Melema  may  have  a  peculiar 
sensibility  to  being  laid  hold  of  unexpectedly  by 
prisoners  who  have  run  away  from  French  soldiers. 
Men  are  born  with  antipathies ;  I  myself  can't  abide 
the  smell  of  mint.  Tito  was  born  with  an  anti- 
pathy to  old  prisoners  who  stumble  and  clutch. 
Ecco ! " 

There  was  a  general  laugh  at  Nello's  defence, 
and  it  was  clear  that  Piero's  disinclination  towards 
Tito  was  not  shared  by  the  company.  The  painter, 
with  his  undecipherable  grimace,  took  the  tow 
from  his  scarsella,  and  stuffed  his  ears  in  indignant 
contempt,  while  Nello  went  on  triumphantly,  — 

"  No,  my  Piero,  I  can't  afford  to  have  my  hel 
erudito  decried;  and  Florence  can't  afford  it  either, 
with  her  scholars  moulting  off  her  at  the  early  age 
of  forty.  Our  Phoenix  Pico  just  gone  straight  to 
Paradise,  as  the  Frate  has  informed  us;  and  the 
incomparable  Poliziano,  not  two  months  since, 
gone  to  —  well,  well,  let  us  hope  he  is  not  gone 
to  the  eminent  scholars  in  the  Malebolge.  " 

"  By  the  way, "  said  Francesco  Cei,  "  have  you 
heard  that  Camilla  Eucellai  has  outdone  the  Frate 
in  her  prophecies  ?  She  prophesied  two  years  ago 
that  Pico  would  die  in  the  time  of  lilies.  He  has 
died  in  November.  '  Not  at  all  the  time  of  lilies, ' 
said  the  scorners.  'Go  to! '  says  Camilla;  '  it  is 
the  lilies  of  France  I  meant,  and  it  seems  to  me 
they  are  close  enough  under  your  nostrils. '  I  say, 
'  Euge,  Camilla !  '  If  the  Frate  can  prove  that  any 
one  of  his  visions  has  been  as  well  fulfilled,  I  '11 
declare  myself  a  Piaguone  to-morrow. " 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH.  81 

**  You  are  something  too  flippant  about  the  Frate, 
Francesco, "  said  Pietro  Cennini,  the  scholarly. 
"  We  are  all  indebted  to  him  in  these  weeks  for 
preaching  peace  and  quietness,  and  the  laying  aside 
of  party  quarrels.  They  are  men  of  small  discern- 
ment who  would  be  glad  to  see  the  people  slipping 
the  Frate 's  leash  just  now.  And  if  the  Most  Chris- 
tian King  is  obstinate  about  the  treaty  to-day,  and 
will  not  sign  what  is  fair  and  honourable  to  Flor- 
ence, Fra  Girolamo  is  the  man  we  must  trust  in  to 
bring  him  to  reason.  " 

"  You  speak  truth,  Messer  Pietro, "  said  Nello ; 
"  the  Frate  is  one  of  the  firmest  nails  Florence  has 
to  hang  on,  —  at  least,  that  is  the  opinion  of  the 
most  respectable  chins  I  have  the  honour  of  shav- 
ing. But  young  Messer  Niccolo  was  saying  here 
the  other  morning  —  and  doubtless  Francesco  means 
the  same  thing  —  there  is  as  wonderful  a  power  of 
stretching  in  the  meaning  of  visions  as  in  Dido's 
bull's  hide.  It  seems  to  me  a  dream  may  mean 
whatever  comes  after  it.  As  our  Franco  Sacchetti 
says,  a  woman  dreams  over  night  of  a  serpent  bit- 
ing her,  breaks  a  drinking-cup  the  next  day,  and 
cries  out,  '  Look  you,  I  thought  something  would 
happen, —  it 's  plain  now  what  the  serpent  meant. '" 

"But  the  Frate 's  visions  are  not  of  that  sort," 
said  Cronaca.  "  He  not  only  says  what  will  hap- 
pen, —  that  the  Church  will  be  scourged  and  reno- 
vated, and  the  heathens  converted,  —  he  says  it 
shall  happen  quickly.  He  is  no  slippery  pretender 
who  provides  loopholes  for  himself;  he  is —  " 

"  What  is  this  ?  what  is  this  ?  "  exclaimed  Nello, 
jumping  off  the  board,  and  putting  his  head  out  at 
the  door.  "  Here  are  people  streaming  into  the 
piazza,  and  shouting.     Something  must  have  hap- 

VOL.  II. —  6 


82  EOMOLA. 

pened  in  the  Via  Larga.  Aha !  "  he  burst  forth 
with  delighted  astonishment,  stepping  out  laugh- 
ing and  waving  his  cap. 

All  the  rest  of  the  company  hastened  to  the  door. 
News  from  the  Via  Larga  was  just  what  they  had 
been  waiting  for.  But  if  the  news  had  come  into 
the  piazza,  they  were  not  a  little  surprised  at  the 
form  of  its  advent.  Carried  above  the  shoulders  of 
the  peopls,  on  a  bench  apparently  snatched  up  in 
the  street,  sat  Tito  Melema,  in  smiling  amusement 
at  the  compulsion  he  was  under.  His  cap  had 
slipped  off  his  head,  and  hung  by  the  becchetto 
which  was  wound  loosely  round  his  neck ;  and  as 
he  saw  the  group  at  Nello's  door,  he  lifted  up  his 
lingers  in  beckoning  recognition.  The  next  minute 
he  had  leaped  from  the  bench  on  to  a  cart  filled 
with  bales,  that  stood  in  the  broad  space  between 
the  baptistery  and  the  steps  of  the  Duomo,  while 
the  people  swarmed  round  him  with  the  noisy 
eagerness  of  poultry  expecting  to  be  fed.  But 
there  was  silence  when  he  began  to  speak  in  his 
clear  mellow  voice,  — 

"  Citizens  of  Florence  !  I  have  no  warrant  to  tell 
the  news  except  your  will.  But  the  news  is  good, 
and  will  harm  no  man  in  the  telling.  The  Most 
Christian  King  is  signing  a  treaty  that  is  honour- 
able to  Florence.  But  you  owe  it  to  one  of  your 
citizens  who  spoke  a  word  worthy  of  the  ancient 
Komans,  —  you  owe  it  to  Piero  Capponi !  " 

Immediately  there  was  a  roar  of  voices.  "  Cap- 
poni !  Capponi !  Wliat  said  our  Piero  ?  "  "  Ah !  he 
wouldn't  stand  being  sent  from  Herod  to  Pilate!  " 
"  We  knew  Piero !  "  "  Orsu  !  Tell  us,  what  did  he 
say?" 

When  the  roar  of  insistence  had  subsided  a  little, 


OF  THE 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH.  83 

Tito  began  again :  "  The  Most  Christian  King  de- 
manded a  little  too  much,  —  was  obstinate,  —  said 
at  last,  '  I  shall  order  my  trumpets  to  sound.  * 
Then,  Florentine  citizens !  your  Piero  Capponi, 
speaking  with  the  voice  of  a  free  city,  said,  '  If 
you  sound  your  trumpets,  we  will  ring  our  bells !  ' 
He  snatched  the  copy  of  the  dishonouring  condi- 
tions from  the  hands  of  the  secretary,  tore  it  in 
pieces,  and  turned  to  leave  the  royal  presence. " 

Again  there  were  loud  shouts,  and  again  im- 
patient demands  for  more. 

"  Then,  Florentines,  the  high  majesty  of  France 
felt,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  all  the  majesty  of  a 
free  city.  And  the  Most  Christian  King  himself 
hastened  from  his  place  to  call  Piero  Capponi  back. 
The  great  spirit  of  your  Florentine  city  did  its 
work  by  a  great  word,  without  need  of  the  great 
actions  that  lay  ready  behind  it.  And  the  King 
has  consented  to  sign  the  treaty,  which  preserves 
the  honour  as  well  as  the  safety  of  Florence. 
The  banner  of  France  will  float  over  every  Floren- 
tine galley  in  sign  of  amity  and  common  privilege, 
but  above  that  banner  will  be  written  the  word 
'  Liberty ! ' 

"  That  is  all  the  news  I  have  to  tell ;  is  it  not 
enough  ?  —  since  it  is  for  the  glory  of  every  one  of 
you,  citizens  of  Florence,  that  you  have  a  fellow- 
citizen  who  knows  how  to  speak  your  will. " 

As  the  shouts  rose  again,  Tito  looked  round  with 
inward  amusement  at  the  various  crowd,  each  of 
whom  was  elated  with  the  notion  that  Piero  Capponi 
had  somehow  represented  him, — that  he  was  the 
mind  of  which  Capponi  was  the  mouthpiece.  He 
enjoyed  the  humour  of  the  incident,  which  had 
suddenly  transformed  him,  an  alien,  and  a  friend  of 


84  ROMOLA. 

the  Medici,  into  an  orator  who  tickled  the  ears  of 
the  people  blatant  for  some  unknown  good  which 
they  called  liberty.  He  felt  quite  glad  that  he 
had  been  laid  hold  of  and  hurried  along  by  the 
crowd  as  he  was  coming  out  of  the  palace  in  the 
Via  Larga  with  a  commission  to  the  Signoria.  It 
was  very  easy,  very  pleasant,  this  exercise  of 
speaking  to  the  general  satisfaction :  a  man  who 
knew  how  to  persuade  need  never  be  in  danger 
from  any  party ;  he  could  convince  each  that  he 
was  feigning  with  all  the  others.  The  gestures 
and  faces  of  weavers  and  dyers  were  certainly 
amusing  when  looked  at  from  above  in  this  way. 

Tito  was  beginning  to  get  easier  in  his  armour, 
and  at  this  moment  was  quite  unconscious  of  it.  He 
stood  with  one  hand  holding  his  recovered  cap, 
and  with  the  other  at  his  belt,  the  light  of  a  com- 
placent smile  in  his  long  lustrous  eyes,  as  he  made 
a  parting  reverence  to  his  audience,  before  spring- 
ing down  from  the  bales,  —  when  suddenly  his 
glance  met  that  of  a  man  who  had  not  at  all  the 
amusing  aspect  of  the  exulting  weavers,  dyers,  and 
wool-carders.  The  face  of  this  man  was  clean- 
shaven, his  hair  close-clipped,  and  he  wore  a  de- 
cent felt  hat.  A  single  glance  would  hardly  have 
sufficed  to  assure  any  one  but  Tito,  that  this  was 
the  face  of  the  escaped  prisoner  who  had  laid  hold  of 
him  on  the  steps.  But  to  Tito  it  came  not  simply  as 
the  face  of  the  escaped  prisoner,  but  as  a  face  with 
which  he  had  been  familiar  long  years  before. 

It  seemed  all  compressed  into  a  second,  —  the 
sight  of  Baldassarre  looking  at  him,  the  sensation 
shooting  through  him  like  a  fiery  arrow,  and  the 
act  of  leaping  from  the  cart.  He  would  have 
leaped  down  in  the  same  instant,  whether  he  had 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH.  85 

seen  Baldassarre  or  not,  for  he  was  in  a  hurry  to 
be  gone  to  the  Palazzo  Vecchio :  this  time  he  had 
not  betrayed  himself  by  look  or  movement,  and  he 
said  inwardly  that  he  should  not  be  taken  by  sur- 
prise again ;  he  should  be  prepared  to  see  this  face 
rise  up  continually  like  the  intermittent  blotch 
that  comes  in  diseased  vision.  But  this  reappear- 
ance of  Baldassarre  so  much  more  in  his  own  like- 
ness tightened  the  pressure  of  dread  :  the  idea  of 
his  madness  lost  its  likelihood  now  he  was  shaven 
and  clad  like  a  decent  though  poor  citizen.  Cer- 
tainly, there  was  a  great  change  in  his  face;  but 
how  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  And  yet,  if  he  were 
perfectly  sane,  in  possession  of  all  his  powers  and 
all  his  learning,  why  was  he  lingering  in  this  way 
before  making  known  his  identity  ?  It  must  be 
for  the  sake  of  making  his  scheme  of  vengeance 
more  complete.  But  he  did  linger:  that  at  least 
gave  an  opportunity  for  flight.  And  Tito  began  to 
think  that  flight  was  his  only  resource. 

But  while  he,  with  his  back  turned  on  the  Piazza 
del  Duomo,  had  lost  the  recollection  of  the  new 
part  he  had  been  playing,  and  was  no  longer  think- 
ing of  the  many  things  which  a  ready  brain  and 
tongue  made  easy,  but  of  a  few  things  which  des- 
tiny had  somehow  made  very  difficult,  the  enthusi- 
asm which  he  had  fed  contemptuously  was  creating 
a  scene  in  that  piazza  in  grand  contrast  with  the 
inward  drama  of  self-centred  fear  which  he  had 
carried  away  from  it. 

The  crowd,  on  Tito's  disappearance,  had  begun 
to  turn  their  faces  towards  the  outlets  of  the  piazza 
in  the  direction  of  the  Via  Larga,  when  the  sight 
of  mazzieri,  or  mace-bearers,  entering  from  the  Via 
de'  Martelli,   announced  the  approach  of  dignita- 


86  ROMOLA. 

ries.  They  must  be  the  syndics,  or  commissioners 
charged  with  the  effecting  of  the  treaty ;  the  treaty 
must  be  already  signed,  and  they  had  come  away 
from  the  royal  presence.  Piero  Capponi  was  com- 
ing, —  the  brave  heart  that  had  known  how  to 
speak  for  Florence.  The  effect  on  the  crowd  was 
remarkable ;  they  parted  with  softening,  dropping 
voices,  subsiding  into  silence,  —  and  the  silence 
became  so  perfect  that  the  tread  of  the  syndics  on 
the  broad  pavement,  and  the  rustle  of  their  black 
silk  garments  could  be  heard,  like  rain  in  the 
night.  There  were  four  of  them ;  but  it  was  not 
the  two  learned  doctors  of  law,  Messer  Guidan- 
tonio  Vespucci  and  Messer  Domenico  Bonsi,  that 
the  crowd  waited  for ;  it  was  not  Francesco  Valori, 
popular  as  he  had  become  in  these  late  days.  The 
moment  belonged  to  another  man  of  firm  presence, 
as  little  inclined  to  humour  the  people  as  to  humour 
any  other  unreasonable  claimants,  —  loving  order, 
like  one  who  by  force  of  fortune  had  been  made  a 
merchant,  and  by  force  of  nature  had  become  a  sol- 
dier. It  was  not  till  he  was  seen  at  the  entrance 
of  the  piazza  that  the  silence  was  broken,  and  then 
one  loud  shout  of  "  Capponi,  Capponi !  Well  done, 
Capponi !  "  rang  through  the  piazza. 

The  simple  resolute  man  looked  round  him  with 
grave  joy.  His  fellow-citizens  gave  him  a  great 
funeral  two  years  later,  when  he  had  died  in  figlit ; 
there  were  torches  carried  by  all  the  magistracy, 
and  torches  again,  and  trains  of  banners.  But  it 
is  not  known  that  he  felt  any  joy  in  the  oration 
that  was  delivered  in  his  praise,  as  the  banners 
waved  over  his  bier.  Let  us  be  glad  that  he  got 
some  thanks  and  praise  while  he  lived. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE   avenger's   SECRET. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Baldassarre  had  been  in 
the  Piazza  del  Duomo  since  his  escape.  He  had  a 
strong  desire  to  hear  the  remarkable  monk  preach 
again,  but  he  had  shrunk  from  reappearing  in  the 
same  spot  where  he  had  been  seen  half  naked,  with 
neglected  hair,  with  a  rope  round  his  neck, — in 
the  same  spot  where  he  had  been  called  a  madman. 
The  feeling,  in  its  freshness,  was  too  strong  to  be 
overcome  by  any  trust  he  had  in  the  change  he  had 
made  in  his  appearance  ;  for  when  the  words  "  Soine 
madman,  surely,"  had  fallen  from  Tito's  lips,  it 
was  not  their  baseness  and  cruelty  only  that  had 
made  their  viper  sting, — it  was  Baldassarre's  in- 
stantaneous bitter  consciousness  that  he  might  be 
unable  to  prove  the  words  false.  Along  with  the 
passionate  desire  for  vengeance  which  possessed 
him  had  arisen  the  keen  sense  that  his  power  of 
achieving  the  vengeance  was  doubtful.  It  was  as  if 
Tito  had  been  helped  by  some  diabolical  prompter, 
who  liad  whispered  Baldassarre's  saddest  secret 
in  the  traitor's  ear.  He  was  not  mad;  for  he 
carried  within  him  that  piteous  stamp  of  sanity, 
the  clear  consciousness  of  shattered  faculties ;  he 
measured  his  own  feebleness.  Witli  the  first  move- 
ment of  vindictive  rage  awoke  a  vague  caution,  like 
that  of  a  wild  beast  that  is  fierce  but  feeble,  —  or 


88  ROMOLA.. 

like  that  of  an  insect  whose  little  fragment  of  earth 
has  given  way,  and  made  it  pause  in  a  palsy  of 
distrust.  It  was  this  distrust,  this  determination 
to  take  no  step  which  might  betray  anything  con- 
cerning himself,  that  had  made  Baldassarre  reject 
Piero  di  Cosimo's  friendly  advances. 

He  had  been  equally  cautious  at  the  hospital, 
only  telling,  in  answer  to  the  questions  of  the 
brethren  there,  that  he  had  been  made  a  prisoner 
by  the  French  on  his  way  from  Genoa.  But  his 
age,  and  the  indications  in  his  speech  and  manner 
that  he  was  of  a  different  class  from  the  ordinary 
mendicants  and  poor  travellers  who  were  enter- 
tained in  the  hospital,  had  induced  the  monks  to 
offer  him  extra  charity :  a  coarse  woollen  tunic  to 
protect  him  from  the  cold,  a  pair  of  peasant's  shoes, 
and  a  few  danari,  smallest  of  Florentine  coins,  to 
help  him  on  his  way.  He  had  gone  on  the  road  to 
Arezzo,  early  in  the  morning;  but  he  had  paused 
at  the  first  little  town,  and  had  used  a  couple  of 
his  danari  to  get  himself  shaved,  and  to  have  his 
circle  of  hair  clipped  short,  in  his  former  fashion. 
The  barber  there  had  a  little  hand-mirror  of  bright 
steel :  it  was  a  long  while,  it  was  years  since  Bal- 
dassarre had  looked  at  himself;  and  now,  as  his 
eyes  fell  on  that  hand-mirror,  a  new  thought  shot 
through  his  mind.  "  Was  he  so  changed  that  Tito 
really  did  not  know  him  ?  "  The  thought  was  such 
a  sudden  arrest  of  impetuous  currents  that  it  was 
a  painful  shock  to  him ;  his  hand  shook  like  a  leaf, 
as  he  put  away  the  barber's  arm  and  asked  for  the 
mirror.  He  wished  to  see  himself  before  he  was 
shaved.  The  barber,  noticing  his  tremulousness, 
held  the  mirror  for  him. 

No,  he  was  not  so  changed  as  that.     He  himself 


THE  AVENGER'S   SECRET.  89 

had  known  the  wrinkles  as  they  had  been  three 
years  ago ;  they  were  only  deeper  now :  there  was 
the  same  rough,  clumsy  skin,  making  little  super- 
ficial bosses  on  the  brow,  like  so  many  cipher- 
marks;  the  skin  was  only  yellower,  only  looked 
more  like  a  lifeless  rind.  That  shaggy  white 
beard,  —  it  was  no  disguise  to  eyes  that  had  looked 
closely  at  him  for  sixteen  years,  —  to  eyes  that 
ought  to  have  searched  for  him  with  the  expecta- 
tion of  finding  him  changed,  as  men  search  for  the 
beloved  among  the  bodies  cast  up  by  the  waters. 
There  was  something  different  in  his  glance,  but  it 
was  a  diti'erence  that  should  only  have  made  the 
recognition  of  him  the  more  startling;  for  is  not  a 
known  voice  all  the  more  thrilling  when  it  is  heard 
as  a  cry  ?  But  the  doubt  was  folly :  he  had  felt 
that  Tito  knew  him.  He  put  out  his  hand  and 
pushed  the  mirror  away.  The  strong  currents  were 
rushing  on  again,  and  the  energies  of  hatred  and 
vengeance  were  active  once  more. 

He  went  back  on  the  way  towards  Florence  again, 
but  he  did  not  wish  to  enter  the  city  till  dusk ;  so 
he  turned  aside  from  the  highroad,  and  sat  down  by 
a  little  pool  shadowed  on  one  side  by  alder-bushes 
still  sprinkled  with  yellow  leaves.  It  was  a  calm 
November  day,  and  he  no  sooner  saw  the  pool  than 
he  thought  its  still  surface  might  be  a  mirror  for 
him.  He  wanted  to  contemplate  himself  slowly, 
as  he  had  not  dared  to  do  in  the  presence  of  the 
barber.  He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  pool,  and 
bent  forward  to  look  earnestly  at  the  image  of 
himself. 

Was  there  something  wandering  and  imbecile  in 
his  face,  —  something  like  what  he  felt  in  his  mind  ? 

Not  now ;  not  when  he  was  examining  himself 


90  EOMOLA. 

with  a  look  of  eager  inquiry  :  on  the  contrary,  there 
was  an  intense  purpose  in  his  eyes.  But  at  other 
times  ?  Yes,  it  must  be  so  :  in  the  long  hours  when 
he  had  the  vague  aching  of  an  unremembered  past 
within  him,  —  when  he  seemed  to  sit  in  dark  lone- 
liness, visited  by  whispers  which  died  out  mock- 
ingly as  he  strained  his  ear  after  them,  and  by 
forms  that  seemed  to  approach  him  and  float  away 
as  he  thrust  out  his  hand  to  grasp  them, —  in  those 
hours,  doubtless,  there  must  be  continual  frustra- 
tion and  amazement  in  his  glance.  And  more 
horrible  still,  when  the  thick  cloud  parted  for  a 
moment,  and,  as  he  sprang  forward  with  hope, 
rolled  together  again,  and  left  him  helpless  as  be- 
fore ;  doubtless,  there  was  then  a  blank  confusion 
in  his  face,  as  of  a  man  suddenly  smitten  with 
blindness. 

Could  he  prove  anything  ?  Could  he  even  begin 
to  allege  anything,  with  the  confidence  that  the 
links  of  thought  would  not  break  away  ?  Would 
any  believe  that  he  had  ever  had  a  mind  filled  with 
rare  knowledge,  busy  with  close  thoughts,  ready 
with  various  speech  ?  It  had  all  slipped  away 
from  him,  —  that  laboriously  gathered  store.  Was 
it  utterly  and  forever  gone  from  him,  like  the 
waters  from  an  urn  lost  in  the  wide  ocean  ?  Or 
was  it  still  within  him,  imprisoned  by  some  ob- 
struction that  might  one  day  break  asunder  ? 

It  might  be  so ;  he  tried  to  keep  his  grasp  on 
that  hope.  For,  since  the  day  when  he  had  first 
walked  feebly  from  his  couch  of  straw,  and  had 
felt  a  new  darkness  within  him  under  the  sunlight, 
his  mind  had  undergone  changes,  partly  gradual 
and  persistent,  partly  sudden  and  fleeting.  As  he 
had  recovered  his  strength  of  body,  he  had  recov- 


THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET.  91 

ered  his  self-command  and  the  energy  of  his  will ; 
he  had  recovered  the  memory  of  all  that  part  of  his 
life  which  was  closely  enwrought  with  his  emo- 
tions ;  and  he  had  felt  more  and  more  constantly 
and  painfully  the  uneasy  sense  of  lost  knowledge. 
But  more  than  that  —  once  or  twice,  when  he  had 
been  strongly  excited,  he  had  seemed  momentarily 
to  be  in  entire  possession  of  his  past  self,  as  old 
men  doze  for  an  instant  and  get  back  the  conscious- 
ness of  their  youth  :  lie  seemed  again  to  see  Greek 
pages  and  understand  them,  again  to  feel  his  mind 
moving  unbenumbed  among  familiar  ideas.  It  had 
been  but  a  Hash,  and  the  darkness  closing  in  again 
seemed  the  more  horrible ;  but  might  not  the  same 
thing  happen  again  for  longer  periods  ?  If  it  would 
only  come  and  stay  long  enough  for  him  to  achieve 
a  revenge,  — devise  an  exquisite  suffering,  such  as 
a  mere  right  arm  could  never  inllict! 

He  raised  himself  from  his  stooping  attitude, 
and,  folding  his  arms,  attempted  to  concentrate  all 
his  mental  force  on  the  plan  he  must  immediately 
pursue.  He  had  to  wait  for  knowledge  and  oppor- 
tunity, and  while  he  waited  he  must  have  the 
means  of  living  without  beggary.  What  he  dreaded 
of  all  things  now,  was  that  any  one  should  think 
him  a  foolish,  helpless  old  man.  No  one  must 
know  that  half  his  memory  was  gone :  the  lost 
strength  might  come  again ;  and  if  it  were  only  for 
a  little  while,  that  might  be  enough.  He  knew 
how  to  begin  to  get  the  information  he  wanted 
about  Tito.  He  had  repeated  the  words  "  Bratti 
Ferravecchi  "  so  constantly  after  they  had  been 
uttered  to  him,  that  they  never  slipped  from  him 
for  long  together.  A  man  at  Genoa,  on  whose 
finger  he  had  seen  Tito's  ring,  had  told  him  that 


92  ROMOLA. 

he  bought  that  ring  at  Florence,  of  a  young  Greek, 
well  dressed,  and  with  a  handsome  dark  face,  in 
the  shop  of  a  rigattiere  called  Fratti  Ferravecchi, 
in  the  street  also  called  Ferravecchi.  This  dis- 
covery had  caused  a  violent  agitation  in  Baldas- 
sarre.  Until  then  he  had  clung  with  all  the 
tenacity  of  his  fervent  nature  to  his  faith  in  Tito, 
and  had  not  for  a  moment  believed  himself  to  be 
wilfully  forsaken.  At  first  he  had  said,  "  My  bit 
of  parchment  has  never  reached  him ;  that  is  why 
I  am  still  toiling  at  Antioch.  But  he  is  searching ; 
he  knows  where  I  was  lost :  he  will  trace  me  out 
and  find  me  at  last.  "  Then,  when  he  was  taken  to 
Corinth,  he  induced  his  owners,  by  the  assurance 
that  he  should  be  sought  out  and  ransomed,  to  pro- 
vide securely  against  the  failure  of  any  inquiries 
that  might  be  made  about  him  at  Antioch ;  and  at 
Corinth  he  thought  joyfully,  "  Here,  at  last,  he 
must  find  me.  Here  he  is  sure  to  touch,  which- 
ever way  he  goes. "  But  before  another  year  had 
passed,  the  illness  had  come  from  which  he  had 
risen  with  body  and  mind  so  shattered  that  he 
was  worse  than  worthless  to  his  owners,  ex- 
cept for  the  sake  of  the  ransom  that  did  not 
come.  Then,  as  he  sat  helpless  in  the  morn- 
ing sunlight,  he  began  to  think,  "  Tito  has  been 
drowned,  or  they  have  made  him  a  prisoner  too. 
I  shall  see  him  no  more.  He  set  out  after  me, 
but  misfortune  overtook  him.  I  shall  see  his 
face  no  more. "  Sitting  in  his  new  feebleness 
and  despair,  supporting  his  head  between  his 
hands,  with  blank  eyes  and  lips  that  moved  uncer- 
tainly, he  looked  so  much  like  a  hopelessly  imbecile 
old  man,  that  his  owners  were  contented  to  be  rid 
of  him,  and  allowed  a  Genoese  merchant,  who  had 


THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET.  93 

compassion  on  liim  as  an  Italian,  to  take  him  on 
board  his  galley.  In  a  voyage  of  many  months  in  the 
Archipelago  and  along  the  seaboard  of  Asia  Minor, 
Baldassarre  had  recovered  his  bodily  strength ; 
but  on  landing  at  Genoa  he  had  so  weary  a  sense  of 
his  desolateness  that  he  almost  wished  he  had  died 
of  that  illness  at  Corinth.  There  was  just  one 
possibility  that  hindered  the  wish  from  being  de- 
cided :  it  was  that  Tito  might  not  be  dead,  but 
living  in  a  state  of  imprisonment  or  destitution ; 
and  if  he  lived  there  was  still  a  hope  for  Baldassarre 
—  faint,  perhaps,  and  likely  to  be  long  deferred, 
but  still  a  hope  —  that  he  might  find  his  child,  his 
cherished  son  again ;  might  yet  again  clasp  hands 
and  meet  face  to  face  with  the  one  being  who  re- 
membered him  as  he  had  been  before  his  mind  was 
broken. 

In  this  state  of  feeling  he  had  chanced  to  meet 
the  stranger  who  wore  Tito's  onyx  ring ;  and  though 
Baldasarrre  would  have  been  unable  to  describe  the 
ring  beforehand,  the  sight  of  it  stirred  the  dormant 
fibres,  and  he  recognized  it.  That  Tito  nearly  a 
year  after  his  father  had  been  parted  from  him 
should  have  been  living  in  apparent  prosperity  at 
Florence,  selling  the  gem  which  he  ought  not  to 
have  sold  till  the  last  extremity,  was  a  fact  that 
Baldassarre  shrank  from  trying  to  account  for :  he 
was  glad  to  be  stunned  and  bewildered  by  it,  rather 
than  to  have  any  distinct  thought ;  he  tried  to  feel 
nothing  but  joy  that  he  should  behold  Tito  again. 
Perhaps  Tito  had  thought  that  his  father  was  dead ; 
somehow  the  mystery  would  be  explained.  "  But  at 
least  I  shall  meet  eyes  that  will  remember  me,  I 
am  not  alone  in  the  world.  " 

And  now  again  Baldassarre  said,  "  I  am  not  alone 


94  ROMOLA. 

in  the  world ;  I  shall  never  be  alone,  for  my  revenge 
is  with  me. " 

It  was  as  the  instrument  of  that  revenge,  as  some- 
thing merely  external  and  subservient  to  his  true 
life,  that  he  bent  down  again  to  examine  himself 
with  hard  curiosity,  —  not,  he  thought,  because  he 
had  any  care  for  a  withered,  forsaken  old  man,  whom 
nobody  loved,  whose  soul  was  like  a  deserted  home, 
where  the  ashes  were  cold  upon  the  hearth,  and  the 
walls  were  bare  of  all  but  the  marks  of  what  had 
been.  It  is  in  the  nature  of  all  human  passion,  the 
lowest  as  well  as  the  highest,  that  there  is  a  point 
where  it  ceases  to  be  properly  egoistic,  and  is  like 
a  fire  kindled  within  our  being  to  which  everything 
else  in  us  is  mere  fuel. 

He  looked  at  the  pale  black -browed  image  in  the 
water  till  he  identified  it  with  that  self  from  which 
his  revenge  seemed  to  be  a  thing  apart ;  and  he  felt 
as  if  the  image  too  heard  the  silent  language  of  his 
thought. 

"  I  was  a  loving  fool,  —  I  worshipped  a  woman 
once,  and  believed  she  could  care  for  me ;  and  then 
I  took  a  helpless  child  and  fostered  him ;  and  I 
watched  him  as  he  grew,  to  see  if  he  would  care 
for  me  only  a  little,  —  care  for  me  over  and  above 
the  good  he  got  from  me.  I  would  have  torn  open 
my  breast  to  warm  him  with  my  life-blood  if  I 
could  only  have  seen  him  care  a  little  for  the  pain 
of  my  wound.  I  have  laboured,  I  have  strained  to 
crush  out  of  this  hard  life  one  drop  of  unselfish 
love.  Fool  ■  men  love  their  own  delights ;  there 
is  no  delight  to  be  had  in  me.  And  yet  I  watched 
till  I  believed  I  saw  what  I  watched  for.  When 
he  was  a  child  he  lifted  soft  eyes  towards  me, 
and  held  my  hand  willingly  :  I  thought,  this  boy 


THE  AVENGER'S   SECRET.  95 

will  surely  love  me  a  little :  because  I  give  my 
life  to  him  and  strive  that  he  shall  know  no  sor- 
row, he  will  care  a  little  when  I  am  thirsty,  — the 
drop  he  lays  on  my  parched  lips  will  be  a  joy  to 
him,  .  .  .  Curses  on  him !  I  wish  I  may  see  him 
lie  with  those  red  lips  white  and  dry  as  ashes,  and 
when  he  looks  for  pity  I  wish  he  may  see  ray  face 
rejoicing  in  his  pain.  It  is  all  a  lie,  —  this  world 
is  a  lie,  — there  is  no  goodness  but  in  hate.  Fool ! 
not  one  drop  of  love  came  with  all  your  striving : 
life  has  not  given  you  one  drop.  But  there  are 
deep  draughts  in  this  world  for  hatred  and  revenge. 
I  have  memory  left  for  that,  and  there  is  strength 
in  my  arm,  there  is  strength  in  my  will ;  and  if 
I  can  do  nothing  but  kill  him —  " 

But  Baldassarre 's  mind  rejected  the  thought  of 
that  brief  punishment.  His  whole  soul  had  been 
thrilled  into  immediate  unreasoning  belief  in  that 
eternity  of  vengeance  where  he,  an  undying  hate, 
might  clutch  forever  an  undying  traitor,  and  hear 
that  fair  smiling  hardness  cry  and  moan  with  an- 
guish. But  the  primary  need  and  hope  was  to  see 
a  slow  revenge  under  the  same  sky  and  on  the  same 
earth  where  he  himself  had  been  forsaken  and  had 
fainted  with  despair.  And  as  soon  as  he  tried  to 
concentrate  his  mind  on  the  means  of  attaining  his 
end,  the  sense  of  his  weakness  pressed  upon  him  like 
a  frosty  ache.  This  despised  body,  which  was  to  be 
the  instrument  of  a  sublime  vengeance,  must  be 
nourished  and  decently  clad.  If  he  had  to  wait,  he 
must  labour ;  and  his  labour  must  be  of  a  humble 
sort,  for  he  had  no  skill.  He  wondered  whether 
the  sight  of  written  characters  would  so  stimulate 
his  faculties  that  he  might  venture  to  try  and  find 
work  as  a  copyist:  that  might  win  him  some  ere- 


^  ROMOLA.    • 

dence  for  his  past  scholarship.  But  no !  he  dared 
trust  neither  hand  nor  brain.  He  must  be  content 
to  do  the  work  that  was  most  like  that  of  a  beast 
of  burden :  in  this  mercantile  city  many  porters 
must  be  wanted,  and  he  could  at  least  carry 
weights.  Thanks  to  the  justice  that  struggled  in 
this  confused  world  in  behalf  of  vengeance,  his 
limbs  had  got  back  some  of  their  old  sturdiness. 
He  was  stripped  of  all  else  that  men  would  give 
coin  for. 

But  the  new  urgency  of  this  habitual  thought 
brought  a  new  suggestion.  There  was  something 
hanging  by  a  cord  round  his  bare  neck ;  something 
apparently  so  paltry  that  the  piety  of  Turks  and 
Frenchmen  had  spared  it,  —  a  tiny  parchment  bag 
blackened  with  age.  It  had  hung  round  his  neck 
as  a  precious  charm  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  he 
had  kept  it  carefully  on  his  breast,  not  believing 
that  it  contained  anything  but  a  tiny  scroll  of 
parchment  rolled  up  hard.  He  might  long  ago 
have  thrown  it  away  as  a  relic  of  his  dead  mother's 
superstition ;  but  he  had  thought  of  it  as  a  relic  of 
her  love,  and  had  kept  it.  It  was  part  of  the 
piety  associated  with  such  hrcvi,  that  they  should 
never  be  opened;  and  at  any  previous  moment  in 
his  life  Baldassarre  would  have  said  that  no  sort  of 
thirst  would  prevail  upon  him  to  open  this  little 
bag  for  the  chance  of  finding  that  it  contained,  not 
parchment,  but  an  engraved  amulet  which  would 
be  worth  money.  But  now  a  thirst  had  come  like 
-that  which  makes  men  open  their  own  veins  to 
satisfy  it,  and  the  thought  of  the  possible  amulet  no 
sooner  crossed  Baldassarre 's  mind  than  with  nervous 
fingers  he  snatched  the  hrcve  from  his  neck.  It  all 
rushed  through  his  mind,  — the  long  years  he  had 


THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET.  97 

worn  it,  the  far-off  sunny  balcony  at  Naples  look- 
ing towards  the  blue  waters,  where  he  had  leaned 
against  his  mother's  knee ;  but  it  made  no  moment 
of  hesitation :  all  piety  now  was  transmuted  into 
a  just  revenge.  He  bit  and  tore  till  the  doubles  of 
parchment  were  laid  open,  and  then  —  it  was  a 
sight  that  made  him  pant  —  there  was  an  amulet. 
It  was  very  small,  but  it  was  as  blue  as  those  far- 
off  waters ;  it  was  an  engraved  sapphire,  which 
must  be  worth  some  gold  ducats.  Baldassarre  no 
sooner  saw  those  possible  ducats  than  he  saw  some 
of  them  exchanged  for  a  poniard.  He  did  not 
want  to  use  the  poniard  yet,  but  he  longed  to  pos- 
sess it.  If  he  could  grasp  its  handle  and  try  its 
edge,  that  blank  in  his  mind  —  that  past  which 
fell  away  continually  —  would  not  make  him  feel 
so  cruelly  helpless ;  the  sharp  steel  that  despised 
talents  and  eluded  strength  would  be  at  his  side, 
as  the  unfailing  friend  of  feeble  justice.  There 
was  a  sparkling  triumph  under  Baldassarre 's  black 
eyebrows  as  he  replaced  the  little  sappliire  inside 
the  bits  of  parchment  and  wound  the  string  tightly 
round  them. 

It  was  nearly  dusk  now,  and  he  rose  to  walk 
back  towards  Florence.  With  his  danari  to  buy 
him  some  bread,  he  felt  rich :  he  could  lie  out  in 
the  open  air,  as  he  found  plenty  more  doing  in  all 
corners  of  Florence.  And  in  the  next  few  days 
he  had  sold  his  sapphire,  had  added  to  his  clothing, 
had  bought  a  bright  dagger,  and  had  still  a  pair  of 
gold  florins  left.  But  he  meant  to  hoard  that  treas- 
ure carefully :  his  lodging  was  an  outhouse  with  a 
heap  of  straw  in  it,  in  a  tliinly  inhabited  part  of 
Oltrarno,  and  he  thought  of  looking  about  for  work 
as  a  porter. 

VOL.  II. —  7 


98  ROMOLA. 

He  had  bought  his  dagger  at  Bratti's.  Paying 
his  meditated  visit  there  one  evening  at  dusk,  he 
had  found  that  singular  rag-merchant  just  returned 
from  one  of  his  rounds,  emptying  out  his  basketful 
of  broken  glass  and  old  iron  among  his  handsome 
show  of  miscellaneous  second-hand  goods.  As 
Baldassarre  entered  the  shop,  and  looked  towards 
the  smart  pieces  of  apparel,  the  musical  instru- 
ments, and  weapons,  which  were  displayed  in  the 
broadest  light  of  the  window,  his  eye  at  once  sin- 
gled out  a  dagger  hanging  up  high  against  a  red 
scarf.  By  buying  the  dagger  he  could  not  only 
satisfy  a  strong  desire,  he  could  open  his  original 
errand  in  a  more  indirect  manner  than  by  speaking 
of  the  onyx  ring.  In  the  course  of  bargaining  for 
the  weapon,  he  let  drop,  with  cautious  carelessness, 
that  he  came  from  Genoa,  and  had  been  directed  to 
Bratti's  shop  by  an  acquaintance  in  that  city  who 
had  bought  a  very  valuable  ring  here.  Had  the 
respectable  trader  any  more  such  rings  ? 

Whereupon  Bratti  had  much  to  say  as  to  the 
unlikelihood  of  such  rings  being  within  reach  of 
many  people,  with  much  vaunting  of  his  own  rare 
connections,  due  to  his  known  wisdom  and  hon- 
esty. It  might  be  true  that  he  was  a  peddler,  —  he 
chose  to  be  a  peddler :  though  he  was  rich  enough 
to  kick  his  heels  in  his  shop  all  day.  But  those 
who  thought  they  had  said  all  there  was  to  be  said 
about  Bratti  when  they  had  called  him  a  peddler, 
were  a  good  deal  further  off  the  truth  than  the 
other  side  of  Pisa.  How  was  it  that  he  could  put 
that  ring  in  a  stranger's  way  ?  It  was  because  he 
had  a  very  particular  knowledge  of  a  handsome 
young  signer,  who  did  not  look  quite  so  fine  a 
feathered  bird  when  Bratti  first  set  eyes  on  him  as 


THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET.  99 

he  did  at  the  present  time.  And  by  a  question  or 
two  Baldassarre  extracted,  without  any  trouble, 
such  a  rough  and  rambling  account  of  Tito's  life  as 
the  peddler  could  give,  since  the  time  when  he  had 
found  him  sleeping  under  the  Loggia  de'  Cerchi. 
It  never  occurred  to  Bratti  that  the  decent  man 
(who  was  rather  deaf,  apparently,  asking  him  to 
say  many  things  twice  over)  had  any  curiosity 
about  Tito ;  tlie  curiosity  was  doubtless  about  him- 
self, as  a  truly  remarkable  peddler. 

And  Baldassarre  left  Bratti 's  shop,  not  only  with 
the  dagger  at  his  side,  but  also  with  a  general 
knowledge  of  Tito's  conduct  and  position,  — of  his 
early  sale  of  the  jewels,  his  immediate  quiet  settle- 
ment of  himself  at  Florence,  his  marriage,  and  his 
great  prosperity. 

"  What  story  had  he  told  about  his  previous 
life,  —  about  his  father  ?  " 

It  would  be  difficult  for  Baldassarre  to  discover 
the  answer  to  that  question.  Meanwhile  he 
wanted  to  learn  all  he  could  about  Florence.  But 
he  found,  to  his  acute  distress,  that  of  the  new  de- 
tails he  learned  he  could  only  retain  a  few,  and 
those  only  by  continual  repetition ;  and  he  began 
to  be  afraid  of  listening  to  any  new  discourse,  lest 
it  should  obliterate  what  he  was  already  striving 
to  remember. 

The  day  he  was  discerned  by  Tito  in  the  Piazza 
del  Puomo,  he  had  the  fresh  anguish  of  this  con- 
sciousness in  his  mind;  and  Tito's  ready  speech 
fell  upon  him  like  the  mockery  of  a  glib,  defying 
demon. 

As  he  went  home  to  his  heap  of  straw,  and 
passed  by  the  booksellers'  shops  in  the  Via  del 
Garbo,  he  paused  to  look  at  the  volumes  spread 


loo  EOMOLA. 

open.  Could  he  by  long  gazing  at  one  of  those 
books  lay  hold  of  the  slippery  threads  of  memory  ? 
Could  he,  by  striving,  get  a  firm  grasp  somewhere, 
and  lift  himself  above  these  waters  that  flowed  over 
him? 

He  was  tempted,  and  bought  the  cheapest  Greek 
book  he  could  see.  He  carried  it  home  and  sat  on 
his  heap  of  straw,  looking  at  the  characters  by  the 
light  of  the  small  window;  but  no  inward  light 
arose  on  them.  Soon  the  evening  darkness  came ; 
but  it  made  little  difference  to  Baldassarre.  His 
strained  eyes  seemed  still  to  see  the  white  pages 
with  the  unintelligible  black  marks  upon  them. 


CHAPTEK  XL 

FRUIT   IS   SEED. 

"  My  Eomola, "  said  Tito,  the  second  morning  after 
he  had  made  his  speech  in  the  Piazza  del  Duomo, 
"  I  am  to  receive  grand  visitors  to-day ;  the  Mila- 
nese Count  is  coming  again,  and  the  Seneschal  de 
Beaucaire,  the  great  favourite  of  the  Cristianissimo. 
I  know  you  don't  care  to  go  through  smiling  cere- 
monies with  these  rustling  magnates,  whom  we  are 
not  likely  to  see  again ;  and  as  they  will  want  to 
look  at  the  antiquities  and  the  library,  perhaps  you 
had  better  give  up  your  work  to-day,  and  go  to 
see  your  cousin  Brigida. " 

Eomola  discerned  a  wish  in  this  intimation,  and 
immediately  assented.  But  presently,  coming  back 
in  her  hood  and  mantle,  she  said :  "  Oh,  what  a 
long  breath  Florence  will  take  when  the  gates  are 
flung  open,  and  the  last  Frenchman  is  walking  out 
of  them!  Even  you  are  getting  tired,  with  all 
your  patience,  my  Tito ;  confess  it.  Ah,  your  head 
is  hot.  " 

He  was  leaning  over  his  desk,  writing,  and  she 
had  laid  her  hand  on  his  head,  meaning  to  give  a 
parting  caress.  The  attitude  had  been  a  frequent 
one ;  and  Tito  was  accustomed,  wlien  he  felt  her 
hand  tliere,  to  raise  his  head,  throw  himself  a  little 
backward,  and  look  up  at  her.     But  he  felt  now  as 


102  ROMOLA. 

unable  to  raise  his  head  as  if  her  hand  had  been  a 
leaden  cowl.  He  spoke  instead,  in  a  light  tone, 
as  his  pen  still  ran  along. 

"  The  French  are  as  ready  to  go  from  Florence  as 
the  wasps  to  leave  a  ripe  pear  when  they  have  just 
fastened  on  it. " 

Eomola,  keenly  sensitive  to  the  absence  of  the 
usual  response,  took  away  her  hand  and  said,  "  I 
am  going,  Tito. " 

"  Farewell,  my  sweet  one.  I  must  wait  at  home. 
Take  Maso  with  you.  " 

Still  Tito  did  not  look  up,  and  Eomola  went  out 
without  saying  any  more.  Very  slight  things 
make  epochs  in  married  life,  and  this  morning  for 
the  first  time  she  admitted  to  herself  not  only  that 
Tito  had  changed,  but  that  he  had  changed  towards 
her.  Did  the  reason  lie  in  herself  ?  She  might 
perhaps  have  thought  so,  if  there  had  not  been  the 
facts  of  the  armour  and  the  picture  to  suggest  some 
external  event  which  was  an  entire  mystery  to  her. 

But  Tito  no  sooner  believed  that  Eomola  was  out 
of  the  house  than  he  laid  down  his  pen  and  looked 
up,  in  delightful  security  from  seeing  anything 
else  than  parchment  and  broken  marble.  He  was 
rather  disgusted  with  himself  that  he  had  not  been 
able  to  look  up  at  Eomola  and  behave  to  her  just 
as  usual.  He  would  have  chosen,  if  he  could,  to 
be  even  more  than  usually  kind ;  but  he  could  not, 
on  a  sudden,  master  an  involuntary  shrinking  from 
her,  which  by  a  subtle  relation  depended  on  those 
very  characteristics  in  him  that  made  him  desire 
not  to  fail  in  his  marks  of  affection.  He  was  about 
to  take  a  step  which  he  knew  would  arouse  her 
deep  indignation  ;  he  would  have  to  encounter  much 
that  was  unpleasant  before  he  could  win  her  for- 


FKUIT  IS   SEED.  103 

giveness.  And  Tito  could  never  find  it  easy  to  face 
displeasure  and  anger ;  his  nature  was  one  of  those 
most  remote  from  defiance  or  impudence,  and  all 
his  inclinations  leaned  towards  preserving  Romola's 
tenderness.  He  was  not  tormented  by  sentimental 
scruples  which,  as  he  had  demonstrated  to  himself 
by  a  very  rapid  course  of  argument,  had  no  relation 
to  solid  utility ;  but  his  freedom  from  scruples  did 
not  release  him  from  the  dread  of  what  was  dis- 
agreeable. Unscrupulousness  gets  rid  of  much,  but 
not  of  toothache,  or  wounded  vanity,  or  the  sense 
of  loneliness,  against  which,  as  the  world  at  pres- 
ent stands,  there  is  no  security  but  a  thoroughly 
healthy  jaw,  and  a  just,  loving  soul.  And  Tito 
was  feeling  intensely  at  this  moment  that  no 
devices  could  save  him  from  pain  in  the  impending 
collision  with  Romola ;  no  persuasive  blandness 
could  cushion  him  against  the  shock  towards  which 
he  was  being  driven  like  a  timid  animal  urged  to  a 
desperate  leap  by  the  terror  of  the  tooth  and  the 
claw  that  are  close  behind  it. 

The  secret  feeling  he  had  previously  had  that 
the  tenacious  adherence  to  Bardo's  wishes  about 
the  library  had  become  under  existing  difficulties 
a  piece  of  sentimental  folly,  which  deprived  him- 
self and  Romola  of  substantial  advantages,  might 
perhaps  never  have  wrought  itself  into  action  but 
for  the  events  of  the  past  week,  which  liad  brought 
at  once  the  pressure  of  a  new  motive  and  the  outlet 
of  a  rare  opportunity.  Nay,  it  was  not  till  his 
dread  had  been  aggravated  by  the  sight  of  Baldas- 
sarre  looking  more  like  his  sane  self,  not  until  he 
had  begun  to  feel  tliat  he  might  be  com])elh'd  to 
fiee  from  Florence,  that  he  liad  l)rought  himself  to 
resolve  on  using  his  legal  right  to  sell  the  library 


I04  ROMOLA. 

before  the  great  opportunity  offered  by  French  and 
Milanese  bidders  slipped  through  his  fingers.  For 
if  he  had  to  leave  Florence  he  did  not  want  to 
leave  it  as  a  destitute  wanderer.  He  had  been  used 
to  an  agreeable  existence,  and  he  wished  to  carry 
with  him  all  the  means  at  hand  for  retaining  the 
same  agreeable  conditions.  He  wished  among  other 
things  to  carry  Eomola  with  him,  and  not,  if  pos- 
sible, to  carry  any  infamy.  Success  had  given  him 
a  growing  appetite  for  all  the  pleasures  that  depend 
on  an  advantageous  social  position,  and  at  no  mo- 
ment could  it  look  like  a  temptation  to  him,  but 
only  like  a  hideous  alternative,  to  decamp  under 
dishonour,  even  with  a  bag  of  diamonds,  and  incur 
the  life  of  an  adventurer.  It  was  not  possible  for 
him  to  make  himself  independent  even  of  those 
Florentines  who  only  greeted  him  with  regard ; 
still  less  was  it  possible  for  him  to  make  himself 
independent  of  Eomola.  She  was  the  wife  of  his 
first  love,  —  he  loved  her  still ;  she  belonged  to  that 
furniture  of  life  which  he  shrank  from  parting 
with.  He  winced  under  her  judgment,  he  felt  un- 
certain how  far  the  revulsion  of  her  feeling  towards 
him  might  go ;  and  all  that  sense  of  power  over  a 
wife  which  makes  a  husband  risk  betrayals  that  a 
lover  never  ventures  on,  would  not  suffice  to  coun- 
teract Tito's  uneasiness.  This  was  the  leaden 
weight  which  had  been  too  strong  for  his  will,  and 
kept  him  from  raising  his  head  to  meet  her  eyes. 
Their  pure  light  brought  too  near  him  the  prospect 
of  a  coming  struggle.  But  it  was  not  to  be  helped ; 
if  they  had  to  leave  Florence,  they  must  have 
money ;  indeed  Tito  could  not  arrange  life  at  all  to 
his  mind  without  a  considerable  sum  of  money. 
And  that  problem  of  arranging  life  to  his  mind 


FRUIT  IS   SEED. 


105 


had  been  the  source  of  all  his  misdoing.  He  would 
have  been  equal  to  any  sacrifice  that  was  not 
unpleasant. 

The  rustling  magnates  came  and  went,  the  bar- 
gains had  been  concluded,  and  Romola  returned 
home ;  but  nothing  grave  was  said  that  night. 
Tito  was  only  gay  and  chatty,  pouring  forth  to  her, 
as  he  had  not  done  before,  stories  and  descriptions  of 
what  he  had  witnessed  during  the  French  visit. 
Romola  thought  she  discerned  an  efifort  in  his  live- 
liness, and  attributing  it  to  the  consciousness  in 
him  that  she  had  been  wounded  in  the  morning, 
accepted  the  eft'ort  as  an  act  of  penitence,  inwardly 
aching  a  little  at  that  sign  of  growing  distance  be- 
tween them,  —  that  there  was  an  offence  about 
which  neither  of  them  dared  to  speak. 

The  next  day  Tito  remained  away  from  home  until 
late  at  night.  It  was  a  marked  day  to  Romola,  for 
Piero  di  Cosimo,  stimulated  to  greater  industry  on 
her  behalf  by  the  fear  that  he  might  have  been  the 
cause  of  pain  to  her  in  the  past  week,  had  sent 
home  her  father's  portrait.  She  had  propped  it 
against  the  back  of  his  old  chair,  and  had  been 
looking  at  it  for  some  time,  when  the  door  opened 
behind  her,  and  Bernardo  del  Nero  came  in. 

"  It  is  you,  godfather !  How  I  wish  you  had 
come  sooner!  it  is  getting  a  little  dusk,"  said 
Romola,  going  towards  him. 

"  I  have  just  looked  in  to  tell  you  the  good  news, 
for  I  know  Tito  has  not  come  yet, "  said  Bernardo. 
"  The  French  king  moves  off  to-morrow :  not  before 
it  is  high  time.  There  has  been  another  tussle  be- 
tween our  people  and  his  soldiers  this  morning. 
But  there  's  a  chance  now  of  the  city  getting  into 
order  once  more  and  trade  going  on. " 


io6  ROMOLA. 

"  That  is  joyful, "  said  Romola.  "  But  it  is  sud- 
den, is  it  not  ?  Tito  seemed  to  think  yesterday 
that  there  was  little  prospect  of  the  king's  going 
soon.  " 

"  He  has  been  well  barked  at ;  that 's  the  reason,  "~ 
said  Bernardo,  smiling.  "  His  own  generals  opened 
their  throats  pretty  well,  and  at  last  our  Signoria 
sent  the  mastiff  of  the  city,  Fra  Girolamo.  The 
Cristianissimo  was  frightened  at  that  thunder,  and 
has  given  the  order  to  move.  I  'm  afraid  there  '11  be 
small  agreement  among  us  when  he  's  gone ;  but,  at 
any  rate,  all  parties  are  agreed  in  being  glad  not 
to  have  Florence  stifled  with  soldiery  any  longer, 
and  the  Frate  has  barked  this  time  to  some  pur- 
pose. Ah,  what  is  this  ?  "  he  added,  as  Romola, 
clasping  him  by  the  arm,  led  him  in  front  of  the 
picture.      "  Let  us  see.  " 

He  began  to  unwind  his  long  scarf  while  she 
placed  a  seat  for  him. 

"Don't  you  want  your  spectacles,  godfather?" 
said  Romola,  in  anxiety  that  he  should  see  just 
what  she  saw. 

"  No,  child,  no, "  said  Bernardo,  uncovering  his 
gray  head,  as  he  seated  himself  with  firm  erectness. 
"  For  seeing  at  this  distance,  my  old  eyes  are  per- 
haps better  than  your  young  ones.  Old  men's  eyes 
are  like  old  men's  memories;  they  are  strongest  for 
things  a  long  way  off.  " 

"  It  is  better  than  having  no  portrait, "  said 
Romola,  apologetically,  after  Bernardo  had  been 
silent  a  little  while.  "  It  is  less  like  him  now 
than  the  image  I  have  in  my  mind,  but  then  that 
might  fade  with  the  years. "  She  rested  her  arm 
on  the  old  man's  shoulder  as  she  spoke,  drawn 
towards  him  strongly  by  their  common  interest  in 
the  dead. 


OF  THE 


FRUIT  IS  SEED.  107 

"  I  don't  know, "  said  Bernardo.  "  I  almost 
think  I  see  Bardo  as  he  was  when  he  was  young, 
better  than  that  picture  shows  him  to  me  as  he  was 
when  he  was  old.  Your  father  had  a  great  deal  of 
fire  in  his  eyes  when  he  was  young.  It  was  what 
I  could  never  understand,  that  he,  with  his  fiery 
spirit,  which  seemed  much  more  impatient  than 
mine,  could  hang  over  the  books  and  live  with 
shadows  all  his  life.  However,  he  had  put  his 
heart  into  that.  " 

Bernardo  gave  a  slight  shrug  as  he  spoke  the  last 
words ;  but  Romola  discerned  in  his  voice  a  feeling 
that  accorded  with  her  own. 

"  And  he  was  disappointed  to  the  last,"  she  said 
involuntarily.  But  immediately  fearing  lest  her 
words  should  be  taken  to  imply  an  accusation 
against  Tito,  she  went  on  almost  hurriedly,  "  If 
we  could  only  see  his  longest,  dearest  wish  fulfilled 
just  to  his  mind!  " 

"  Well,  so  we  may, "  said  Bernardo,  kindly,  ris- 
ing and  putting  on  his  cap.  "  The  times  are  cloudy 
now,  but  fish  are  caught  by  waiting.  Who  knows  ? 
When  the  wheel  has  turned  often  enough,  I  may 
be  Gonfaloniere  yet  before  I  die ;  and  no  creditor 
can  touch  these  things. "  He  looked  round  as  he 
spoke.  Then,  turning  to  her,  and  patting  her 
cheek,  said,  "  And  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  my 
dying ;  my  ghost  will  claim  nothing.  I  've  taken 
care  of  that  in  my  will. " 

Romola  seized  the  hand  that  was  against  her 
cheek,  and  put  it  to  her  lips  in  silence. 

"Haven't  you  been  scolding  your  husband  for 
keeping  away  from  home  so  much  lately  ?  I  see 
him  everywhere  but  here, "  said  Bernardo,  willing 
to  change  the  subject. 


io8  ROMOLA. 

She  felt  the  flush  spread  over  her  neck  and  face 
as  she  said,  "  He  has  been  very  much  wanted ;  you 
know  he  speaks  so  well.  I  am  glad  to  know  that 
his  value  is  understood.  " 

"  You  are  contented  then,  Madonna  Orgogliosa  ? " 
said  Bernardo,  smiling,  as  he  moved  to  the  door. 

"  Assuredly.  " 

Poor  Eomola !  There  was  one  thing  that  would 
have  made  the  pang  of  disappointment  in  her  hus- 
band harder  to  bear;  it  was,  that  any  one  should 
know  he  gave  her  cause  for  disappointment.  This 
might  be  a  woman's  weakness,  but  it  is  closely 
allied  to  a  woman's  nobleness.  She  who  willingly 
lifts  up  the  veil  of  her  married  life  has  profaned  it 
from  a  sanctuary  into  a  vulgar  place. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  REVELATION. 

The  next  day  Romola,  like  every  other  Florentine, 
was  excited  about  the  departure  of  the  French. 
Besides  her  other  reasons  for  gladness,  she  had  a 
dim  hope,  which  she  was  conscious  was  half  super- 
stitious, that  those  new  anxieties  about  Tito, 
having  come  with  the  burdensome  guests,  might 
perhaps  vanish  with  them.  The  French  had  been 
in  Florence  hardly  eleven  days,  but  in  that  space 
she  had  felt  more  acute  unhappiness  than  she  had 
known  in  her  life  before.  Tito  had  adopted  the 
hateful  armour  on  the  day  of  their  arrival ;  and 
though  she  could  frame  no  distinct  notion  why  their 
departure  should  remove  the  cause  of  his  fear,  — 
though,  when  she  thought  of  that  cause,  the  image 
of  the  prisoner  grasping  him,  as  she  had  seen  it  in 
Piero's  sketch,  urged  itself  before  her  and  excluded 
every  other, — still,  when  the  French  were  gone, 
she  would  be  rid  of  something  that  was  strongly 
associated  with  her  pain. 

Wrapped  in  her  mantle,  she  waited  under  the 
loggia  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and  watched  for  the 
glimpses  of  the  troops  and  the  royal  retinue  pass- 
ing the  bridges  on  their  way  to  the  Porta  San 
Piero,  that  looks  towards  Siena  and  Rome.  She 
even  returned  to  her  station  when  the  gates  had 


no  ROMOLA. 

been  closed,  that  she  might  feel  herself  vibrat- 
ing with  the  great  peal  of  the  bells.  It  was  dusk 
then ;  and  when  at  last  she  descended  into  the 
library,  she  lit  her  lamp  with  the  resolution  that 
she  would  overcome  the  agitation  which  had  made 
her  idle  all  day,  and  sit  down  to  work  at  her  copy- 
ing of  the  catalogue.  Tito  had  left  home  early  in 
the  morning,  and  she  did  not  expect  him  yet.  Be- 
fore he  came  she  intended  to  leave  the  library,  and 
sit  in  the  pretty  saloon,  with  the  dancing  nymphs 
and  the  birds.  She  had  done  so  every  evening 
since  he  had  objected  to  the  library  as  chill  and 
gloomy. 

To  her  great  surprise,  she  had  not  been  at  work 
long  before  Tito  entered.  Her  first  thought  was, 
how  cheerless  he  would  feel  in  the  wide  darkness 
of  this  great  room,  with  one  little  oil-lamp  burning 
at  the  further  end,  and  the  fire  nearly  out.  She 
almost  ran  towards  him. 

"  Tito,  dearest,  I  did  not  know  you  would  come 
so  soon, "  she  said  nervously,  putting  up  her  white 
arms  to  unwind  his  becchetto. 

"  I  am  not  welcome,  then, "  he  said,  with  one  of 
his  brightest  smiles,  clasping  her,  but  playfully 
holding  his  head  back  from  her. 

"  Tito !  "  She  uttered  the  word  in  a  tone  of 
pretty,  loving  reproach ;  and  then  he  kissed  her 
fondly,  stroked  her  hair,  as  his  manner  was,  and 
seemed  not  to  mind  about  taking  off  his  mantle 
yet.  Eomola  quivered  with  delight.  All  the 
emotions  of  the  day  had  been  preparing  in  her  a 
keener  sensitiveness  to  the  return  of  this  habitual 
manner.  "  It  will  come  back, "  she  was  saying  to 
herself  ;  "  the  old  happiness  will  perhaps  come  back. 
He  is  like  himself  again.  " 


A  REVELATION.  in 

Tito  was  taking  great  pains  to  be  like  himself ; 
his  heart  was  palpitating  with  anxiety. 

"  If  I  had  expected  you  so  soon, "  said  Romola, 
as  she  at  last  helped  him  to  take  off  his  wrappings, 
"  I  would  have  had  a  little  festival  prepared  to  this 
joyful  ringing  of  the  bells.  I  did  not  mean  to  be 
here  in  the  library  when  you  came  home. " 

"  Never  mind,  sweet, "  he  said  carelessly.  "  Do 
not  think  about  the  fire.  Come, — come  and  sit 
down. " 

There  was  a  low  stool  against  Tito's  chair,  and 
that  was  Romola 's  habitual  seat  when  they  were 
talking  together.  She  rested  her  arm  on  his  knee, 
as  she  used  to  do  on  her  father's,  and  looked  up  at 
him  while  he  spoke.  He  had  never  yet  noticed 
the  presence  of  the  portrait,  and  she  had  not  men- 
tioned it,  —  thinking  of  it  all  the  more. 

"  I  have  been  enjoying  the  clang  of  the  bells  for 
the  first  time,  Tito,"  she  began.  "I  liked  being 
shaken  and  deafened  by  them :  I  fancied  I  was 
something  like  a  Bacchante  possessed  by  a  divine 
rage.  Are  not  the  people  looking  very  joyful  to- 
night ? " 

"  Joyful  after  a  sour  and  pious  fashion, "  said 
Tito,  with  a  shrug.  "  But  in  truth,  those  who 
are  left  behind  in  Florence  have  little  cause  to 
be  joyful :  it  seems  to  me,  the  most  reasonable 
ground  of  gladness  would  be  to  have  got  out  of 
Florence. " 

Tito  had  sounded  the  desired  key-note  without 
any  trouble,  or  appearance  of  premeditation.  He 
spoke  with  no  emphasis,  but  he  looked  grave  enough 
to  make  Romola  ask  rather  anxiously,  — 

"  Why,  Tito  ?     Are  there  fresh  troubles  ?  " 

"  No  need  of  fresh  ones,  my  Romola.     There  are 


112  ROMOLA. 

three  strong  parties  in  the  city,  all  ready  to  fly  at 
each  other's  throats.  And  if  the  Frate's  party  is 
strong  enough  to  frighten  the  other  two  into  silence, 
as  seems  most  likely,  life  will  be  as  pleasant  and 
amusing  as  a  funeral.  They  have  the  plan  of  a 
Great  Council  simmering  already  ;  and  if  they  get  it, 
the  man  who  sings  sacred  Lauds  the  loudest  will  be 
the  most  eligible  for  office.  And  besides  that,  the 
city  will  be  so  drained  by  the  payment  of  this 
great  subsidy  to  the  French  king,  and  by  the  war 
to  get  back  Pisa,  that  the  prospect  would  be  dis- 
mal enough  without  the  rule  of  fanatics.  On  the 
whole,  Florence  will  be  a  delightful  place  for  those 
worthies  who  entertain  themselves  in  the  evening 
by  going  into  crypts  and  lashing  themselves ;  but 
for  everything  else,  the  exiles  have  the  best  of  it. 
For  my  own  part,  I  have  been  thinking  seriously 
that  we  should  be  wise  to  quit  Florence,  my 
Komola.  " 

She  started.  "  Tito,  how  could  we  leave  Flor- 
ence ?  Surely  you  do  not  think  I  could  leave  it  — 
at  least,  not  yet  —  not  for  a  long  while.  "  She  had 
turned  cold  and  trembling,  and  did  not  find  it  quite 
easy  to  speak.  Tito  must  know  the  reasons  she 
had  in  her  mind. 

"  That  is  all  a  fabric  of  your  own  imagination, 
my  sweet  one.  Your  secluded  life  has  made  you 
lay  such  false  stress  on  a  few  things.  You  know 
I  used  to  tell  you,  before  we  were  married,  that  I 
wished  we  were  somewhere  else  than  in  Florence. 
If  you  had  seen  more  places  and  more  people,  you 
would  know  what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  there  is 
something  in  the  Florentines  that  reminds  me  of 
their  cutting  spring  winds.  I  like  people  who 
take  life  less  eagerly ;  and  it  would  be  good  for  my 


A  REVELATION.  113 

Komola,  too,  to  see  a  new  life.     I  should  like  to 
dip  her  a  little  in  the  soft  waters  of  forgetfulness.  " 

He  leaned  forward  and  kissed  her  brow,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  her  fair  hair  again ;  but  she  felt  his 
caress  no  more  than  if  he  had  kissed  a  mask.  She 
was  too  much  agitated  by  the  sense  of  the  distance 
between  their  minds  to  be  conscious  that  his  lips 
touched  her. 

"  Tito,  it  is  not  because  I  suppose  Florence  is 
the  pleasantest  place  in  the  world  that  I  desire  not 
to  quit  it.  It  is  because  I  —  because  we  have  to 
see  my  father's  wish  fulfilled.  My  godfather  is 
old,  — he  is  seventy -one  ;  we  could  not  leave  it  to 
him. " 

"  It  is  precisely  those  superstitions  which  hang 
about  your  mind  like  bedimming  clouds,  my 
Eomola,  that  make  one  great  reason  why  I  could 
wish  we  were  two  hundred  leagues  from  Florence. 
I  am  obliged  to  take  care  of  you  in  opposition  to 
your  own  will :  if  those  dear  eyes,  that  look  so 
tender,  see  falsely,  I  must  see  for  them,  and  save 
my  wife  from  wasting  her  life  in  disappointing  her- 
self by  impracticable  dreams.  " 

Eomola  sat  silent  and  motionless :  she  could  not 
blind  herself  to  the  direction  in  which  Tito's  words 
pointed  :  he  wanted  to  persuade  her  that  they  might 
get  the  library  deposited  in  some  monastery,  or  take 
some  other  ready  means  to  rid  themselves  of  a  task, 
and  of  a  tie  to  Florence ;  and  she  was  determined 
never  to  submit  her  mind  to  his  judgment  on  this 
question  of  duty  to  her  father ;  she  was  inwardly 
prepared  to  encounter  any  sort  of  pain  in  resist- 
ance. But  the  determination  was  kept  latent  in 
these  first  moments  by  the  heart-crushing  sense 
that  now  at  last  she  and  Tito  must  be  confessedly 

VOL.  II. 8 


114  ROMOLA. 

divided  in  their  wishes.  He  was  glad  of  her  si- 
lence ;  for,  much  as  he  had  feared  the  strength  of 
her  feeling,  it  was  impossible  for  him,  shut  up  in 
the  narrowness  that  hedges  in  all  merely  clever, 
unimpassioned  men,  not  to  overestimate  the  per- 
suasiveness of  his  own  arguments.  His  conduct 
did  not  look  ugly  to  himself,  and  his  imagination 
did  not  suffice  to  show  him  exactly  how  it  would 
look  to  Eomola.  He  went  on  in  the  same  gentle, 
remonstrating  tone. 

"  You  know,  dearest,  —  your  own  clear  judgment 
always  showed  you, —  that  the  notion  of  isolating  a 
collection  of  books  and  antiquities,  and  attaching  a 
single  name  to  them  forever,  was  one  that  had  no 
valid,  substantial  good  for  its  object;  and  yet 
more,  one  that  was  liable  to  be  defeated  in  a  thou- 
sand ways.  See  what  has  become  of  the  Medici 
collections !  And,  for  my  part,  I  consider  it  even 
blameworthy  to  entertain  those  petty  views  of 
appropriation :  why  should  any  one  be  reasonably 
glad  that  Florence  should  possess  the  benefits  of 
learned  research  and  taste  more  than  any  other 
city  ?  I  understand  your  feeling  about  the  wishes 
of  the  dead ;  but  wisdom  puts  a  limit  to  these  sen- 
timents, else  lives  might  be  continually  wasted  in 
that  sort  of  futile  devotion, — like  praising  deaf 
gods  forever.  You  gave  your  life  to  your  father 
while  he  lived ;  why  should  you  demand  more  of 
yourself  ? " 

"  Because  it  was  a  trust, "  said  Eomola,  in  a  low 
but  distinct  voice.  "  He  trusted  me,  he  trusted 
you,  Tito.  I  did  not  expect  you  to  feel  anything 
else  about  it,  —  to  feel  as  I  do,  —  but  I  did  expect 
you  to  feel  that. " 

"  Yes,  dearest,  of  course  I  should  feel  it  on  a 


A  REVELATION.  115 

point  where  your  father's  real  welfare  or  happiness 
was  concerned ;  but  there  is  no  question  of  that 
now.  If  we  believed  in  purgatory,  I  should  be  as 
anxious  as  you  to  have  masses  said ;  and  if  I  be- 
lieved it  could  now  pain  your  father  to  see  his  library 
preserved  and  used  in  a  rather  different  way  from 
what  he  had  set  his  mind  on,  I  should  share  the 
strictness  of  your  views.  But  a  little  philosophy 
should  teach  us  to  rid  ourselves  of  those  air-woven 
fetters  that  mortals  hang  round  themselves,  spend- 
ing their  lives  in  misery  under  the  mere  imagina- 
tion of  weight.  Your  mind,  which  seizes  ideas  so 
readily,  my  Eomola,  is  able  to  discriminate  be- 
tween substantial  good  and  these  brain-wrought 
fantasies.  Ask  yourself,  dearest,  what  possible 
good  can  these  books  and  antiquities  do,  stowed 
together  under  your  father's  name  in  Florence, 
more  than  they  would  do  if  they  were  divided  or 
carried  elsewhere  ?  Nay,  is  not  the  very  disper- 
sion of  such  things  in  hands  that  know  how  to 
value  them,  one  means  of  extending  their  useful- 
ness ?  This  rivalry  of  Italian  cities  is  very  petty 
and  illiberal.  The  loss  of  Constantinople  was  the 
gain  of  the  whole  civilized  world.  " 

Eomola  was  still  too  thoroughly  under  the  pain- 
ful pressure  of  the  new  revelation  Tito  was  making 
of  himself  for  her  resistance  to  find  any  strong 
vent.  As  that  fluent  talk  fell  on  her  ears,  there 
was  a  rising  contempt  within  her,  which  only 
made  her  more  conscious  of  her  bruised,  despairing 
love,  her  love  for  the  Tito  she  had  married  and  be- 
lieved in.  Her  nature,  possessed  with  the  energies 
of  strong  emotion,  recoiled  from  this  hopelessly 
shallow  readiness  which  professed  to  appropriate 
the  widest  sympathies  and  had  no  pulse  for  the 


ii6  ROMOLA. 

nearest.  She  still  spoke  like  one  who  was  restrained 
from  showing  all  she  felt.  She  had  only  drawn 
away  her  arm  from  his  knee,  and  sat  with  her 
hands  clasped  before  her,  cold  and  motionless  as 
locked  waters. 

"  You  talk  of  substantial  good,  Tito !  Are  faith- 
fulness, and  love,  and  sweet  grateful  memories  no 
good  ?  Is  it  no  good  that  we  should  keep  our  silent 
promises  on  which  others  build  because  they  be- 
lieve in  our  love  and  truth  ?  Is  it  no  good-  that  a 
just  life  should  be  justly  honoured  ?  Or,  is  it  good 
that  we  should  harden  our  hearts  against  all  the 
wants  and  hopes  of  those  who  have  depended  on 
us  ?  What  good  can  belong  to  men  who  have  such 
souls  ?  To  talk  cleverly,  perhaps,  and  find  soft 
couches  for  themselves,  and  live  and  die  with  their 
base  selves  as  their  best  companions.  " 

Her  voice  had  gradually  risen  till  there  was  a 
ring  of  scorn  in  the  last  words.  She  made  a  slight 
pause ;  but  he  saw  there  were  other  words  quiver- 
ing on  her  lips,  and  he  chose  to  let  them  come. 

"  I  know  of  no  good  for  cities  or  the  world  if 
they  are  to  be  made  up  of  such  beings.  But  I  am 
not  thinking  of  other  Italian  cities  and  the  whole 
civilized  world, —  I  am  thinking  of  my  father,  and 
of  my  love  and  sorrow  for  him,  and  of  his  just 
claims  on  us.  I  would  give  up  anything  else, 
Tito,  —  I  would  leave  Florence,  —  what  else  did  I 
live  for  but  for  him  and  you  ?  But  I  will  not  give 
up  that  duty.  What  have  I  to  do  with  your  argu- 
ments ?  It  was  a  yearning  of  his  heart,  and  there- 
fore it  is  a  yearning  of  mine.  " 

Her  voice,  from  having  been  tremulous,  had  be- 
come full  and  firm.  She  felt  that  she  had  been  urged 
on  to  say  all  that  it  was  needful  for  her  to  say. 


A  REVELATION.  117 

She  thought,  poor  thing,  there  was  nothing  harder 
to  come  than  this  struggle  against  Tito's  sugges- 
tions as  against  the  meaner  part  of  herself. 

He  had  begun  to  see  clearly  that  he  could  not 
persuade  her  into  assent :  he  must  take  another 
course,  and  show  her  that  the  time  for  resistance 
was  past.  That,  at  least,  would  put  an  end  to 
further  struggle ;  and  if  the  disclosure  were  not 
made  by  himself  to-night,  to-morrow  it  must  be 
made  in  another  way.  This  necessity  nerved  his 
courage ;  and  his  experience  of  her  affectionateness 
and  unexpected  submissiveness,  ever  since  their 
marriage  until  now,  encouraged  him  to  hope  that, 
at  last,  she  would  accommodate  herself  to  what  had 
been  his  will. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  speak  in  that  spirit  of 
blind  persistence,  my  Eomola, "  he  said  quietly, 
"  because  it  obliges  me  to  give  you  pain.  But  I 
partly  foresaw  your  opposition,  and  as  a  prompt  de- 
cision was  necessary,  I  avoided  that  obstacle,  and 
decided  without  consulting  you.  The  very  care  of 
a  husband  for  his  wife's  interest  compels  him  to 
that  separate  action  sometimes,  —  even  when  he 
has  such  a  wife  as  you,   my  Eomola. " 

She  turned  her  eyes  on  him  in  breathless 
inquiry. 

"  I  mean, "  he  said,  answering  her  look,  "  that  I 
have  arranged  for  the  transfer,  both  of  the  books 
and  of  the  antiquities,  where  they  will  find  the 
highest  use  and  value.  The  books  have  been 
bought  for  the  Duke  of  Milan,  the  marbles  and 
bronzes  and  the  rest  are  going  to  France ;  and  both 
will  be  protected  by  the  stability  of  a  great  Power, 
instead  of  remaining  in  a  city  which  is  exposed  to 
ruin. " 


ii8  ROMOLA. 

Before  lie  had  finished  speaking,  Eomola  had 
started  from  her  seat,  and  stood  up  looking  down  at 
him,  with  tightened  hands  falling  before  her,  and, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  with  a  flash  of  fierce- 
ness in  her  scorn  and  anger. 

"  You  have  sold  them  ? "  she  asked,  as  if  she  dis- 
trusted her  ears. 

"  I  have, "  said  Tito,  quailing  a  little.  The 
scene  was  unpleasant,  —  the  descending  scorn  al- 
ready scorched  him. 

"  You  are  a  treacherous  man !  "  she  said,  with 
something  grating  in  her  voice,  as  she  looked  down 
at  him. 

She  was  silent  for  a  minute ;  and  he  sat  still, 
feeling  that  ingenuity  was  powerless  just  now. 
Suddenly  she  turned  away,  and  said  in  an  agitated 
tone :  "  It  may  be  hindered,  —  I  am  going  to  my 
godfather.  " 

In  an  instant  Tito  started  up,  went  to  the  door, 
locked  it,  and  took  out  the  key.  It  was  time  for 
all  the  masculine  predominance  that  was  latent  in 
him  to  show  itself.  But  he  was  not  angry ;  he 
only  felt  that  the  moment  was  eminently  unpleas- 
ant, and  that  when  this  scene  was  at  an  end  he 
should  be  glad  to  keep  away  from  Eomola  for  a 
little  while.  But  it  was  absolutely  necessary  first 
that  she  should  be  reduced  to  passiveness. 

"  Try  to  calm  yourself  a  little,  Eomola, "  he  said, 
leaning  in  the  easiest  attitude  possible  against  a 
pedestal  under  the  bust  of  a  grim  old  Eoman.  Not 
that  he  was  inwardly  easy :  his  heart  palpitated 
with  a  moral  dread,  against  which  no  chain-armour 
could  be  found.  He  had  locked  in  his  wife's 
anger  and  scorn,  but  he  had  been  obliged  to 
lock  himself  in  with  it ;  and  his  blood  did  not  rise 


A  REVELATION.  119 

with  contest,  —  his  olive  cheek  was  perceptibly 
paled. 

Eomola  had  paused  and  turned  her  eyes  on  him 
as  she  saw  him  take  his  stand  and  lodge  the  key 
in  his  scarsella.  Her  eyes  were  flashing,  and  her 
whole  frame  seemed  to  be  possessed  by  impetuous 
force  that  wanted  to  leap  out  in  some  deed.  All 
the  crushing  pain  of  disappointment  in  her  husband, 
which  had  made  the  strongest  part  of  her  con- 
sciousness a  few  minutes  before,  was  annihilated 
by  the  vehemence  of  her  indignation.  She  could 
not  care  in  this  moment  that  the  man  she  was  de- 
spising as  he  leaned  there  in  his  loathsome  beauty 
—  she  could  not  care  that  he  was  her  husband  ;  she 
could  only  feel  that  she  despised  him.  The  pride 
and  fierceness  of  the  old  Bardo  blood  had  been 
thoroughly  awaked  in  her  for  the  first  time. 

"  Try  at  least  to  understand  the  fact, "  said  Tito, 
"  and  do  not  seek  to  take  futile  steps  which  may  be 
fatal.  It  is  of  no  use  for  you  to  go  to  your  god- 
father. Messer  Bernardo  cannot  reverse  what  I 
have  done.  Only  sit  down.  You  would  hardly 
wish,  if  you  were  quite  yourself,  to  make  known 
to  any  third  person  what  passes  between  us  in 
private. " 

Tito  knew  that  he  had  touched  the  right  fibre 
there.  But  she  did  not  sit  down ;  she  was  too 
unconscious  of  her  body  voluntarily  to  change  her 
attitude. 

"  Why  can  it  not  be  reversed  ?  "  she  said  after  a 
pause.      "  Nothing  is  moved  yet.  " 

"  Simply  because  the  sale  has  been  concluded  by 
written  agreement ;  the  purchasers  have  left  Flor- 
ence, and  I  hold  the  bonds  for  the  purchase- 
money.  * 


I20  ROMOLA. 

"  If  my  father  had  suspected  you  of  being  a 
faithless  man, "  said  Romola,  in  a  tone  of  bitter 
scorn,  which  insisted  on  darting  out  before  she 
could  say  anything  else,  "  he  would  have  placed 
the  library  safely  out  of  your  power.  But  death 
overtook  him  too  soon,  and  when  you  were  sure  his 
ear  was  deaf,  and  his  hand  stiff,  you  robbed  him.  " 
She  paused  an  instant,  and  then  said  with  gathered 
passion :  "  Have  you  robbed  somebody  else,  who  is 
not  dead  ?     Is  that  the  reason  you  wear  armour  ?  " 

Romola  had  been  driven  to  utter  the  words  as 
men  are  driven  to  use  the  lash  of  the  horsewhip. 
At  first  Tito  felt  horribly  cowed ;  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  disgrace  he  had  been  dreading  would  be 
worse  than  he  had  imagined  it.  But  soon  there  was 
a  reaction :  such  power  of  dislike  and  resistance  as 
there  was  within  him  was  beginning  to  rise  against 
a  wife  whose  voice  seemed  like  the  herald  of  a 
retributive  fate.  Her,  at  least,  his  quick  mind 
told  him  that  he  might  master. 

"  It  is  useless, "  he  said  coolly,  "  to  answer  the 
words  of  madness,  Eomola.  Your  peculiar  feeling 
about  your  father  has  made  you  mad  at  this  moment. 
Any  rational  person  looking  at  the  case  from  a  due 
distance  will  see  that  I  have  taken  the  wisest  course. 
Apart  from  the  influence  of  your  exaggerated  feel- 
ings on  him,  I  am  convinced  that  Messer  Bernardo 
would  be  of  that  opinion.  " 

"  He  would  not !  "  said  Romola.  "  He  lives  in  the 
hope  of  seeing  my  father's  wish  exactly  fulfilled. 
We  spoke  of  it  together  only  yesterday.  He  will 
help  me  yet.  Who  are  these  men  to  whom  you 
have  sold  my  father's  property  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be  told, 
except  that  it  signifies  little.     The  Count  di  San 


A  REVELATION.  121 

Severino  and  the  Seneschal  de  Beaucaire  are  now 
on  their  way  with  the  king  to  Siena.  " 

"  They  may  be  overtaken  and  persuaded  to  give 
up  their  purchase,"  said  Romola,  eagerly,  her  an- 
ger beginning  to  be  surmounted  by  anxious  thought. 

"  No,  they  may  not, "  said  Tito,  with  cool 
decision. 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  do  not  choose  that  they  should. " 

"  But  if  you  were  paid  the  money  ?  —  we  will  pay 
you  the  money,"  said  Romola. 

No  words  could  have  disclosed  more  fully  her 
sense  of  alienation  from  Tito  ;  but  they  were  spoken 
with  less  of  bitterness  than  of  anxious  pleading. 
And  he  felt  stronger,  for  he  saw  that  the  first  im- 
pulse of  fury  was  past. 

"  No,  my  Romola.  Understand  that  such  thoughts 
as  these  are  impracticable.  You  would  not,  in  a 
reasonable  moment,  ask  your  godfather  to  bury 
three  tliousand  florins  in  addition  to  what  he  has 
already  paid  on  the  library.  I  think  your  pride 
and  delicacy  would  shrink  from  that.  " 

She  began  to  tremble  and  turn  cold  again  with 
discouragement,  and  sank  down  on  the  carved  chest 
near  which  she  was  standing.  He  went  on  in  a 
clear  voice,  under  which  she  shuddered,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  narrow  cold  stream  coursing  over  a  hot 
cheek. 

"  Moreover,  it  is  not  my  will  that  Messer  Ber- 
nardo should  advance  the  money,  even  if  the  project 
were  not  an  utterly  wild  one.  And  I  beg  you  to 
consider,  before  you  take  any  step  or  utter  any 
word  on  the  subject,  what  will  be  the  conse(|uences 
of  your  placing  yourself  in  oi)position  to  me,  and 
trying  to  exhibit  your  husband  in  the  odious  light 


122  ROMOLA. 

which  your  own  distempered  feelings  cast  over 
him.  What  object  will  you  serve  by  injuring  me 
with  Messer  Bernardo  ?  The  event  is  irrevocable, 
the  library  is  sold,   and  you  are  my  wife.  " 

Every  word  was  spoken  for  the  sake  of  a  calcu- 
lated effect,  for  his  intellect  was  urged  into  the  ut- 
most activity  by  the  danger  of  the  crisis.  He 
knew  that  Eomola's  mind  would  take  in  rapidly 
enough  all  the  wide  meaning  of  his  speech.  He 
waited  and  watched  her  in  silence. 

She  had  turned  her  eyes  from  him,  and  was 
looking  on  the  ground,  and  in  that  way  she  sat 
for  several  minutes.  When  she  spoke,  her  voice 
was  quite  altered,  —  it  was  quiet  and  cold. 

"  I  have  one  thing  to  ask.  " 

"  Ask  anything  that  I  can  do  without  injuring 
us  both,   Eomola.  " 

"  That  you  will  give  me  that  portion  of  the 
money  which  belongs  to  my  godfather,  and  let  me 
pay  him. " 

"  I  must  have  some  assurance  from  you,  first,  of 
the  attitude  you  intend  to  take  towards  me. " 

"  Do  you  believe  in  assurances,  Tito  ?  "  she  said, 
with  a  tinge  of  returning  bitterness. 

"  From  you  I  do.  " 

"  I  will  do  you  no  harm.  I  shall  disclose  noth- 
ing. I  will  say  nothing  to  pain  him  or  you.  You 
say  truly,  the  event  is  irrevocable.  " 

"  Then  I  will  do  what  you  desire  to-morrow 
morning.  " 

"To-night,  if  possible,"  said  Eomola,  "that  we 
may  not  speak  of  it  again. " 

"  It  is  possible, "  he  said,  moving  towards  the 
lamp,  while  she  sat  still,  looking  away  from  him 
with  absent  eyes. 


A  REVELATION.  123 

Presently  he  came  and  bent  down  over  her,  to  put 
a  piece  of  paper  into  her  hand.  "  You  will  receive 
something  in  return,  you  are  aware,  my  Komola  ? " 
he  said  gently,  not  minding  so  much  what  had 
passed,  now  he  was  secure;  and  feeling  able  to 
try  and  propitiate  her. 

"  Yes, "  she  said,  taking  the  paper,  without  look- 
ing at  him,  "  I  understand.  " 

"  And  you  will  forgive  me,  my  Komola,  when 
you  have  had  time  to  reflect. "  He  just  touched 
her  brow  with  his  lips;  but  she  took  no  notice, 
and  seemed  really  unconscious  of  the  act. 

She  was  aware  that  he  unlocked  the  door  and 
went  out.  She  moved  her  head  and  listened.  The 
great  door  of  the  court  opened  and  shut  again.  She 
started  up  as  if  some  sudden  freedom  had  come, 
and  going  to  her  father's  chair  where  his  picture 
was  propped,  fell  on  her  knees  before  it,  and  burst 
into  sobs. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BALDASSAEEE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE. 

When  Baldassarre  was  wandering  about  Florence 
in  search  of  a  spare  outhouse  where  he  might  have 
the  cheapest  of  sheltered  beds,  his  steps  had  been 
attracted  towards  that  sole  portion  of  ground  within 
the  walls  of  the  city  which  is  not  perfectly  level, 
and  where  the  spectator,  lifted  above  the  roofs  of 
the  houses  can  see  beyond  the  city  to  the  protect- 
ing hills  and  far-stretching  valley,  otherwise  shut 
out  from  his  view  except  along  the  welcome  open- 
ing made  by  the  course  of  the  Arno.  Part  of  that 
ground  has  been  already  seen  by  us  as  the  hill  of 
Bogoli,  at  that  time  a  great  stone-quarry ;  but  the 
side  towards  which  Baldassarre  directed  his  steps 
was  the  one  that  sloped  down  behind  the  Via  de' 
Bardi,  and  was  most  commonly  called  the  hill  of 
San  Giorgio.  Bratti  had  told  him  that  Tito's 
dwelling  was  in  the  Via  de'  Bardi;  and  after 
surveying  that  street,  he  turned  up  the  slope  of 
the  hill  which  he  had  observed  as  he  was  crossing 
the  bridge.  If  he  could  find  a  sheltering  outhouse 
on  that  hill,  he  would  be  glad ;  he  had  now  for 
some  years  been  accustomed  to  live  with  a  broad 
sky  about  him ;  and,  moreover,  the  narrow  passes  of 
the  streets,  with  their  strip  of  sky  above,  and  the 
unknown  labyrinth  around  them,  seemed  to  in- 
tensify his  sense  of  loneliness  and  feeble  memory. 


BALDASSARUE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE.     125 

The  hill  was  sparsely  inhabited,  and  covered 
chiefly  by  gardens ;  but  in  one  spot  was  a  piece  of 
rough  ground  jagged  with  great  stones,  which  had 
never  been  cultivated  since  a  landslip  had  ruined 
some  houses  there  towards  the  end  of  the  thirteenth 
century.  Just  above  the  edge  of  this  broken  ground 
stood  a  queer  little  square  building,  looking  like  a 
truncated  tower  roofed  in  with  fluted  tiles ;  and 
close  by  was  a  small  outhouse,  apparently  built  up 
against  a  piece  of  ruined  stone-wall.  Under  a 
large  half-dead  mulberry-tree  that  was  now  sending 
its  last  fluttering  leaves  in  at  the  open  doorways  a 
shrivelled,  hardy  old  woman  was  untying  a  goat 
with  two  kids,  and  Baldassarre  could  see  that  part 
of  the  outbuilding  was  occupied  by  live-stock ;  but 
the  door  of  the  other  part  was  open,  and  it  was 
empty  of  everything  but  some  tools  and  straw.  It 
was  just  the  sort  of  place  he  wanted.  He  spoke  to 
the  old  woman ;  but  it  was  not  till  he  got  close  to 
her  and  shouted  in  her  ear,  that  he  succeeded  in 
making  her  understand  his  want  of  a  lodging,  and 
his  readiness  to  pay  for  it.  At  first  he  could  get 
no  answer  beyond  shakes  of  the  head  and  the  words, 
"  No  —  no  lodging, "  uttered  in  the  muffled  tone  of 
the  deaf.  But,  by  dint  of  persistence,  he  made 
clear  to  her  that  he  was  a  poor  stranger  from  a 
long  way  over  seas,  and  could  not  afford  to  go  to 
hostelries ;  that  he  only  wanted  to  lie  on  the  straw 
in  the  outhouse,  and  would  pay  her  a  quattrino  or 
two  a  week  for  that  shelter.  She  still  looked  at 
him  dubiously,  shaking  her  head  and  talking  low 
to  herself ;  but  presently,  as  if  a  new  thought  oc- 
curred to  her,  she  fetched  a  hatchet  from  the  house 
and,  showing  him  a  chump  that  lay  half  covered 
with  litter  in  a  corner,  asked  him  if  he  would  chop 


126  ROMOLA. 

that  up  for  her :  if  he  would,  he  might  lie  in  the 
outhouse  for  one  night.  He  agreed,  and  Monna  Lisa 
stood  with  her  arms  akimbo  to  watch  him,  with  a 
smile  of  gratified  cunning,  saying  low  to  herself, — 

"  It 's  lain  there  ever  since  my  old  man  died. 
What  then  ?  I  might  as  well  have  put  a  stone  on 
the  fire.  He  chops  very  well,  though  he  does 
speak  with  a  foreign  tongue,  and  looks  odd.  I 
couldn't  have  got  it  done  cheaper.  And  if  he  only 
wants  a  bit  of  straw  to  lie  on,  I  might  make  him 
do  an  errand  or  two  up  and  down  the  hill.  Who 
need  know  ?  And  sin  that 's  hidden  's  half  for- 
given.^ He  's  a  stranger :  he  '11  take  no  notice  of 
her.     And  I  '11  tell  her  to  keep  her  tongue  still.  " 

The  antecedent  to  these  feminine  pronouns  had 
a  pair  of  blue  eyes,  which  at  that  moment  were 
applied  to  a  large  round  hole  in  the  shutter  of  the 
upper  window.  The  shutter  was  closed,  not  for 
any  penal  reasons,  but  because  only  the  opposite 
window  had  the  luxury  of  glass  in  it :  the  weather 
was  not  warm,  and  a  round  hole  four  inches  in 
diameter  served  all  the  purposes  of  observation. 
The  hole  was,  unfortunately,  a  little  too  high,  and 
obliged  the  small  observer  to  stand  on  a  low  stool 
of  a  rickety  character ;  but  Tessa  would  have  stood 
a  long  while  in  a  much  more  inconvenient  position 
for  the  sake  of  seeing  a  little  variety  in  her  life. 
She  had  been  drawn  to  the  opening  at  the  first  loud 
tones  of  the  strange  voice  speaking  to  Monna  Lisa ; 
and  darting  gently  across  her  room  every  now  and 
then  to  peep  at  something,  she  continued  to  stand 
there  until  the  wood  had  been  chopped,  and  she 
saw  Baldassarre  enter  the  outhouse,  as  the  dusk 
was  gathering,  and  seat  himself  on  the  straw. 
1  "  Peccato  celato  e  mezzo  perdonato." 


BALDASSARRE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE.     127 

A  great  temptation  had  laid  hold  of  Tessa's  mind  ; 
she  would  go  and  take  that  old  man  part  of  her 
supper,  and  talk  to  him  a  little.  He  was  not  deaf 
like  Monna  Lisa,  and  besides  she  could  say  a  great 
many  things  to  him  that  it  was  no  use  to  shout  at 
Monna  Lisa,  who  knew  them  already.  And  he 
was  a  stranger,  —  strangers  came  from  a  long  way 
otf  and  went  away  again,  and  lived  nowhere  in 
particular.  It  was  naughty,  she  knew,  for  obe- 
dience made  the  largest  part  in  Tessa's  idea  of 
duty ;  but  it  would  be  something  to  confess  to  the 
Padre  next  Pasqua,  and  there  was  nothing  else  to 
confess  except  going  to  sleep  sometimes  over  her 
beads,  and  being  a  little  cross  with  Monna  Lisa 
because  she  was  so  deaf ;  for  she  had  as  much  idle- 
ness as  she  liked  now,  and  was  never  frightened 
into  telling  white  lies.  She  turned  away  from  her 
shutter  with  rather  an  excited  expression  in  her 
childish  face,  which  was  as  pretty  and  pouting  as 
ever.  Her  garb  was  still  that  of  a  simple  conta- 
dina,  but  of  a  contadina  prepared  for  a  festa :  her 
gown  of  dark -green  serge,  with  its  red  girdle,  was 
very  clean  and  neat ;  she  had  the  string  of  red  glass 
beads  round  her  neck ;  and  her  brown  hair,  rough 
from  curliness,  was  duly  knotted  up,  and  fastened 
with  the  silver  pin.  She  had  but  one  new  ornament, 
and  she  was  very  proud  of  it,  for  it  was  a  fine  gold 
ring. 

Tessa  sat  on  the  low  stool,  nursing  her  knees, 
for  a  minute  or  two,  with  her  little  soul  poised  in 
fluttering  excitement  on  the  edge  of  this  pleasant 
transgression.  It  was  quite  irresistible.  She  had 
been  commanded  to  make  no  acquaintances,  and 
warned  that  if  she  did,  all  her  new  happy  lot  Avould 
vanish  away,  and  be  like  a  liidden  treasure  that 


128  ROMOLA. 

turned  to  lead  as  soon  as  it  was  brought  to  the  day- 
light ;  and  she  had  been  so  obedient  that  when  she 
had  to  go  to  church  she  had  kept  her  face  shaded 
by  her  hood  and  had  pursed  up  her  lips  quite 
tightly.  It  was  true  her  obedience  had  been  a 
little  helped  by  her  own  dread  lest  the  alarming 
stepfather  ISTofri  should  turn  up  even  in  this  quar- 
ter, so  far  from  the  Por'  del  Prato,  and  beat  her 
at  least,  if  he  did  not  drag  her  back  to  work  for 
him.  But  this  old  man  was  not  an  acquaintance ; 
he  was  a  poor  stranger  going  to  sleep  in  the  out- 
house, and  he  probably  knew  nothing  of  stepfather 
Nofri ;  and,  besides,  if  she  took  him  some  supper, 
he  would  like  her,  and  not  want  to  tell  anything 
about  her.  Monna  Lisa  would  say  she  must  not 
go  and  talk  to  him,  therefore  Monna  Lisa  must  not 
be  consulted.  It  did  not  signify  what  she  found 
out  after  it  had  been  done. 

Supper  was  being  prepared,  she  knew,  —  a  moun- 
tain of  macaroni  flavoured  with  cheese,  fragrant 
enough  to  tame  any  stranger.  So  she  tripped 
downstairs  with  a  mind  full  of  deep  designs,  and 
first  asking  with  an  innocent  look  what  that  noise 
of  talking  had  been,  without  waiting  for  an  answer 
knit  her  brow  with  a  peremptory  air,  something 
like  a  kitten  trying  to  be  formidable,  and  sent  the 
old  woman  upstairs ;  saying,  she  chose  to  eat  her 
supper  down  below.  In  three  minutes  Tessa,  with 
her  lantern  in  one  hand  and  a  wooden  bowl  of 
macaroni  in  the  other,  was  kicking  gently  at  the 
door  of  the  outhouse ;  and  Baldassarre,  roused  from 
sad  revery,  doubted  in  the  first  moment  whether  he 
were  awake  as  he  opened  the  door  and  saw  this 
surprising  little  handmaid,  with  delight  in  her 
wide  eyes,  breaking  in  on  his  dismal  loneliness. 


BALDASSARRE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE.     129 

"  I  've  brought  you  some  supper, "  she  said,  lift- 
ing her  mouth  towards  his  ear  and  shouting,  as  if 
he  had  been  deaf  like  Monna  Lisa.  "  Sit  down  and 
eat  it  while  I  stay  with  you.  " 

Surprise  and  distrust  surmounted  every  other  feel- 
ing in  Baldassarre ;  but  though  he  had  no  smile  or 
word  of  gratitude  ready,  there  could  not  be  any  im- 
pulse to  push  away  this  visitant,  and  he  sank  down 
passively  on  his  straw  again,  while  Tessa  placed 
herself  close  to  him,  put  the  wooden  bowl  on  his 
lap,  and  set  down  the  lantern  in  front  of  them, 
crossing  her  hands  before  her,  and  nodding  at  the 
bowl  Avith  a  significant  smile,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Yes,  you  may  really  eat  it. "  For  in  the  excite- 
ment of  carrying  out  her  deed,  she  had  forgotten 
her  previous  thought  that  the  stranger  would  not 
be  deaf,  and  had  fallen  into  her  habitual  alterna- 
tive of  dumb  show  and  shouting. 

The  invitation  was  not  a  disagreeable  one,  for  he 
had  been  gnawing  a  remnant  of  dry  bread,  which 
had  left  plenty  of  appetite  for  anything  warm  and 
relishing.  Tessa  watched  the  disappearance  of  two 
or  three  mouthfuls  without  speaking,  for  she  had 
thought  his  eyes  rather  fierce  at  first;  but  now  she 
ventured  to  put  her  mouth  to  his  ear  again  and 
cry,  — 

"I  like  my  supper,   don't  you?" 

It  was  not  a  smile,  but  rather  the  milder  look  of 
a  dog  touched  by  kindness,  but  unable  to  smile, 
that  Baldassarre  turned  on  this  round  blue-eyed 
thing  that  was  caring  about  him. 

"  Yes, "  he  said ;  "  but  I  can  hear  well, —  I  'm  not 
deaf. " 

"  It  is  true ;  I  forgot, "  said  Tessa,  lifting  her 
hands  and  clasping  them.     "  But  Monna  Lisa  is 


130  ROMOLA. 

deaf,  and  I  live  with  her.  She 's  a  kind  old 
woman,  and  I  'm  not  frightened  at  her.  And  we 
live  very  well :  we  have  plenty  of  nice  things.  I 
can  have  nuts  if  I  like.  And  I  'm  not  obliged  to 
work  now.  I  used  to  have  to  work,  and  I  didn't 
like  it ;  but  I  liked  feeding  the  mules,  and  I  should 
like  to  see  poor  Giannetta,  the  little  mule,  again. 
"We  've  only  got  a  goat  and  two  kids,  and  I  used 
to  talk  to  the  goat  a  good  deal,  because  there  was 
nobody  else  but  Monna  Lisa.  But  now  I  've  got 
something  else,  — can  you  guess  what  it  is?" 

She  drew  her  head  back,  and  looked  with  a  chal- 
lenging smile  at  Baldassarre,  as  if  she  had  proposed 
a  difficult  riddle  to  him. 

"  No, "  said  he,  putting  aside  his  bowl,  and  look- 
ing at  her  dreamily.  It  seemed  as  if  this  young 
prattling  thing  were  some  memory  come  back  out 
of  his  own  youth. 

"  You  like  me  to  talk  to  you,  don't  you  ?  "  said 
Tessa ;  "  but  you  must  not  tell  anybody.  Shall  I 
fetch  you  a  bit  of  cold  sausage  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  but  he  looked  so  mild  now 
that  Tessa  felt  quite  at  her  ease. 

"  Well,  then,  I  ve  got  a  little  baby.  Such  a 
pretty  bambinetto,  with  little  fingers  and  nails! 
Not  old  yet;  it  was  born  at  the  Nativita,  Monna 
Lisa  says.  I  was  married  one  Nativita,  a  long, 
long  while  ago,  and  nobody  knew.  O  Santa  Ma- 
donna! I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  that!" 

Tessa  set  up  her  shoulders  and  bit  her  lip,  look- 
ing at  Baldassarre  as  if  this  betrayal  of  secrets 
must  have  an  exciting  effect  on  him  too.  But  he 
seemed  not  to  care  much ;  and  perhaps  that  was 
in  the  nature  of  strangers. 

"  Yes, "  she  said,  carrying  on  her  thought  aloud, 


OF  THE 


BALDASSARRE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE.     131 

"you  are  a  stranger;  you  don't  live  anywhere  or 
know  anybody,   do  you  ?  " 

"  No, "  said  B.ildassarre,  also  thinking  aloud, 
rather  than  consciously  answering ;  "  I  only  know 
one  man. " 

"  His  name  is  not  Nofri,  is  it  ? "  said  Tessa, 
anxiously. 

"  No, "  said  Baldassarre,  noticing  her  look  of 
fear.      "Is  that  your  husband's  name?" 

That  mistaken  supposition  was  very  amusing  to 
Tessa.  She  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands  as  she 
said,  — 

"  Xo,  indeed !  But  I  must  not  tell  you  anything 
about  my  husband.  You  would  never  think  what 
he  is,  — not  at  all  like  Nofri !  " 

She  laughed  again  at  the  delightful  incongruity 
between  the  name  of  Nofri  —  which  was  not 
separable  from  the  idea  of  the  cross  grained  step- 
father—  and  the  idea  of  her  husband. 

"  But  I  don't  see  him  very  often,"  she  went  on, 
more  gravely.  "  And  sometimes  I  pray  to  the 
Holy  Madonna  to  send  him  oftener,  and  once  she 
did.  But  I  must  go  back  to  my  bimbo  now.  I  '11 
bring  it  to  show  you  to-morrow.  You  would  like 
to  see  it.  Sometimes  it  cries  and  makes  a  face, 
but  only  when  it 's  hungry,  Monna  Lisa  says.  You 
wouldn't  think  it,  but  Monna  Lisa  had  babies 
once,  and  tliey  are  all  dead  old  men.  My  husband 
says  she  will  never  die  now,  because  she  's  so  well 
dried.  I  'ra  glad  of  that,  for  I  'm  fond  of  her.  You 
would  like  to  stay  here  to-morrow,  should  n't  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  have  this  place  to  come  and 
rest  in,  that's  all,"  said  Baldassarre.  "I  would 
pay  for  it,  and  harm  nobody.  " 

"  No,  indeed ;  I  think  you  are  not  a  bad  old  man. 


132  ROMOLA. 

But  you  look  sorry  about  something.  Tell  me,  is 
there  anything  you  shall  cry  about  when  I  leave 
you  by  yourself  ?     /  used  to  cry  once.  " 

"  No,  child ;  I  think  I  shall  cry  no  more.  " 

"  That 's  right;  and  I  '11  bring  you  some  break- 
fast, and  show  you  the  bimbo.      Good-night.  " 

Tessa  took  up  her  bowl  and  lantern,  and  closed 
the  door  behind  her.  The  pretty  loving  appari- 
tion had  been  no  more  to  Baldassarre  than  a  faint 
rainbow  on  the  blackness  to  the  man  who  is  .wrest- 
ling in  deep  waters.  He  hardly  thought  of  her 
again  till  his  dreamy  waking  passed  into  the  more 
vivid  images  of  disturbed  sleep. 

But  Tessa  thought  much  of  him.  She  had  no 
sooner  entered  the  house  than  she  told  Monna  Lisa 
what  she  had  done,  and  insisted  that  the  stranger 
should  be  allowed  to  come  and  rest  in  the  outhouse 
when  he  liked.  The  old  woman,  who  had  had  her 
notions  of  making  him  a  useful  tenant,  made  a 
great  show  of  reluctance,  shook  her  head,  and  urged 
that  Messer  Naldo  would  be  angry  if  she  let  any 
one  come  about  the  house.  Tessa  did  not  believe 
that.  Naldo  had  said  nothing  against  strangers 
who  lived  nowhere ;  and  this  old  man  knew  no- 
body except  one  person,  who  was  not  Nofri. 

"  Well, "  conceded  Monna  Lisa,  at  last,  "  if  I  let 
him  stay  for  a  while  and  carry  things  up  the  hill  for 
me,  thou  must  keep  thy  counsel  and  tell  nobody. " 

"  No,"  said  Tessa,  "  I  '11  only  tell  the  bimbo.  " 

"  And  then, "  Monna  Lisa  went  on,  in  her  thick 
,  undertone,  "  God  may  love  us  well  enough  not  to 
let  Messer  Naldo  find  out  anything  about  it.  For 
he  never  comes  here  but  at  dark ;  and  as  he  was  here 
two  days  ago,  it 's  likely  he  '11  never  come  at  all 
till  the  old  man  's  gone  away  again. " 


BALDASSARRE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE.     133 

"  Oh  me  !  Monna,  "  said  Tessa,  clasping  her  hands, 
"  I  wish  Naldo  had  not  to  go  such  a  long,  long  way 
sometimes  before  he  comes  back  again. " 

"Ah,  child!  the  world's  big,  they  say.  There 
are  places  behind  the  mountains,  and  if  people  go 
night  and  day,  night  and  day,  they  get  to  Eome, 
and  see  the  Holy  Father. " 

Tessa  looked  submissive  in  the  presence  of  this 
mystery,  and  began  to  rock  her  baby,  and  sing 
syllables  of  vague  loving  meaning,  in  tones  that 
imitated  a  triple  chime. 

The  next  morning  she  was  unusually  industrious 
in  the  prospect  of  more  dialogue,  and  of  the  pleas- 
ure she  should  give  the  poor  old  stranger  by  show- 
ing him  her  baby.  But  before  she  could  get  ready 
to  take  Baldassarre  his  breakfast,  she  found  that 
Monna  Lisa  had  been  employing  him  as  a  drawer  of 
water.  She  deferred  her  paternosters,  and  hurried 
down  to  insist  that  Baldassarre  should  sit  on  his 
straw,  so  that  she  might  come  and  sit  by  him  again 
while  he  ate  his  breakfast.  That  attitude  made 
the  new  companionship  all  the  more  delightful  to 
Tessa,  for  she  had  been  used  to  sitting  on  straw  in 
old  days  along  with  her  goats  and  mules. 

"  I  will  not  let  Monna  Lisa  give  you  too  much 
work  to  do, "  she  said,  bringing  him  some  steaming 
broth  and  soft  bread.  "  I  don't  like  much  work, 
and  I  dare  say  you  don't.  I  like  sitting  in  the 
sunshine  and  feeding  things.  Monna  Lisa  says, 
work  is  good ;  but  she  does  it  all  herself,  so  I  don't 
mind.  She  's  not  a  cross  old  woman  ;  you  need  n't 
be  afraid  of  her  being  cross.  And  now,  you  eat 
that,  and  I  'U  go  and  fetch  my  baby  and  show  it 
you." 

Presently  she  came  back  with  the  small  mummy- 


134  ROMOLA. 

case  in  her  arms.  The  mummy  looked  very  lively, 
having  unusually  large  dark  eyes,  though  no  more 
than  the  usual  indication  of  a  future  nose. 

"  This  is  my  baby, "  said  Tessa,  seating  herself 
close  to  Baldassarre.  "  You  did  n't  think  it  was  so 
pretty,  did  you  ?  It  is  like  the  little  Gesu,  and  I 
should  think  the  Santa  Madonna  would  be  kinder 
to  me  now,  is  it  not  true  ?  But  I  have  not  much 
to  ask  for,  because  I  have  everything  now,  —  only 
that  I  should  see  my  husband  oftener  Yo-u  may 
hold  the  bambino  a  little  if  you  like,  but  I  think 
you  must  not  kiss  him,  because  you  might  hurt 
him. " 

She  spoke  this  prohibition  in  a  tone  of  soothing 
excuse,  and  Baldassarre  could  not  refuse  to  hold 
the  small  package.  "  Poor  thing  !  poor  thing  !  "  he 
said,  in  a  deep  voice  which  had  something  strangely 
threatening  in  its  apparent  pity.  It  did  not  seem 
to  him  as  if  this  guileless  loving  little  woman  could 
reconcile  him  to  the  world  at  all,  but  rather  that 
she  was  with  him  against  the  world,  that  she  was 
a  creature  who  would  need  to  be  avenged. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  be  sorry  for  me,"  she  said ;  "  for 
though  I  don't  see  him  often,  he  is  more  beautiful 
and  good  than  anybody  else  in  the  world.  I  say 
prayers  to  him  when  he's  away.  You  couldn't 
think  what  he  is !  " 

She  looked  at  Baldassarre  with  a  wide  glance  of 
mysterious  meaning,  taking  the  baby  from  him 
again,  and  almost  wishing  he  would  question  her 
as  if  he  wanted  very  much  to  know  more.  "  Yes, 
I  could, "  said  Baldassarre,  rather  bitterly. 

"  No,  I  'm  sure  you  never  could, "  said  Tessa, 
earnestly.  "  You  thought  he  might  be  Nofri, "  she 
added,   with   a  triumphant  air  of  conclusiveness. 


BALDASSARRE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE.     135 

"  But  never  mind;  you  couldn't  "know.  What  is 
your  name  ?  " 

He  rubbed  his  hand  over  his  knitted  brow,  then 
looked  at  her  blankly  and  said,  "  Ah,  child,  what 
is  it?" 

It  was  not  that  he  did  not  often  remember  his 
name  well  enough ;  and  if  he  had  had  presence  of 
mind  now  to  remember  it,  he  would  have  chosen  not 
to  tell  it.  But  a  sudden  question  appealing  to  his 
memory  had  a  paralyzing  effect,  and  in  that  mo- 
ment he  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  helplessness. 

Ignorant  as  Tessa  was,  the  pity  stirred  in  her  by 
his  blank  look  taught  her  to  say,  — 

"  Never  mind  :  you  are  a  stranger,  it  is  no  matter 
about  your  having  a  name.  Good-by  now,  because 
I  want  my  breakfast.  You  will  come  here  and  rest 
when  you  like  ;  Monna  Lisa  says  you  may.  And 
don't  you  be  unhappy,  for  we  '11  be  good  to  you.  " 

"  Poor  thing !  "  said  Baldassarre  again. 


CHAPTEK  XrV^ 

NO   PLACE   FOE   EEPENTANCE. 

Messer  Naldo  came  again  sooner  than  wqs  ex- 
pected :  he  came  on  the  evening  of  the  28th  of 
November,  only  eleven  days  after  his  previous 
visit,  proving  that  he  had  not  gone  far  beyond  the 
mountains ;  and  a  scene  which  we  have  witnessed 
as  it  took  place  that  evening  in  the  Via  de'  Bardi 
may  help  to  explain  the  impulse  which  turned  his 
steps  towards  the  hill  of  San  Giorgio. 

When  Tito  had  first  found  this  home  for  Tessa, 
on  his  return  from  Eome,  more  than  a  year  and  a 
half  ago,  he  had  acted,  he  persuaded  himself,  sim- 
ply under  the  constraint  imposed  on  him  by  his 
own  kindliness  after  the  unlucky  incident  which 
had  made  foolish  little  Tessa  imagine  him  to  be 
her  husband.  It  was  true  that  the  kindness  was 
manifested  towards  a  pretty  trusting  thing  whom 
it  was  impossible  to  be  near  without  feeling  in- 
clined to  caress  and  pet  her;  but  it  was  not  less 
true  that  Tito  had  movements  of  kindness  towards 
her  apart  from  any  contemplated  gain  to  himself. 
Otherwise,  charming  as  her  prettiness  and  prattle 
were  in  a  lazy  moment,  he  might  have  preferred  to 
be  free  from  her ;  for  he  was  not  in  love  with  Tessa, 
—  he  was  in  love  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  with 
an  entirely  different  woman,  whom  he  was  not 
simply  inclined  to  shower  caresses  on,  but  whose 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE.  137 

presence  possessed  him  so  that  the  simple  sweep 
of  her  long  tresses  across  his  cheek  seemed  to  vi- 
brate through  the  hours.  All  the  young  ideal 
passion  he  had  in  him  had  been  stirred  by  Eomola, 
and  his  fibre  was  too  tine,  his  intellect  too  bright, 
for  him  to  be  tempted  into  the  habits  of  a  gross 
pleasure-seeker.  But  he  had  spun  a  web  about 
himself  and  Tessa,  which  he  felt  incapable  of 
breaking :  in  the  first  moments  after  the  mimic 
marriage  he  had  been  prompted  to  leave  her  under 
an  illusion  by  a  distinct  calculation  of  his  own 
possible  need,  but  since  that  critical  moment  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  web  had  gone  on  spinning 
itself  in  spite  of  him,  like  a  growth  over  which  he 
had  no  power.  The  elements  of  kindness  and  self- 
indulgence  are  hard  to  distinguish  in  a  soft  nature 
like  Tito's;  and  the  annoyance  he  had  felt  under 
Tessa's  pursuit  of  him  on  the  day  of  his  betrothal, 
the  thorough  intention  of  revealing  the  truth  to 
her  with  which  he  set  out  to  fulfil  his  promise  of 
seeing  her  again,  were  a  sufficiently  strong  argument 
to  him  that  in  ultimately  leaving  Tessa  under  her 
illusion  and  providing  a  home  for  her,  he  had  been 
overcome  by  his  own  kindness.  And  in  these  days 
of  his  first  devotion  to  Eomola  he  needed  a  self- 
justifying  argument.  He  had  learned  to  be  glad 
that  she  was  deceived  about  some  things.  But 
every  strong  feeling  makes  to  itself  a  conscience  of 
its  own,  — has  its  own  piety;  just  as  much  as  the 
feeling  of  the  son  towards  the  mother,  which  will 
sometimes  survive  amid  the  worst  fumes  of  depra- 
vation ;  and  Tito  could  not  yet  be  easy  in  commit- 
ting a  secret  offence  against  his  wedded  love. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  careful  in  taking  pre- 
cautions to   preserve   the   secrecy  of   the  otience. 


138  ROMOLA. 

Monna  Lisa,  who,  like  many  of  her  class,  never  left 
her  habitation  except  to  go  to  one  or  two  particular 
shops,  and  to  confession  once  a  year,  knew  nothing 
of  his  real  name  and  whereabout :  she  only  knew 
that  he  paid  her  so  as  to  make  her  very  comforta- 
ble, and  minded  little  about  the  rest,  save  that  she 
got  fond  of  Tessa,  and  found  pleasure  in  the  cares 
for  which  she  was  paid.  There  was  some  mystery 
behind,  clearly,  since  Tessa  was  a  contadina,  and 
Messer  Naldo  was  a  signer ;  but,  for  aught  Monna 
Lisa  knew,  he  might  be  a  real  husband.  For 
Tito  had  thoroughly  frightened  Tessa  into  silence 
about  the  circumstances  of  their  marriage,  by  tell- 
ing her  that  if  she  broke  that  silence  she  would 
never  see  him  again ;  and  Monna  Lisa's  deafness, 
which  made  it  impossible  to  say  anything  to  her 
without  some  premeditation,  had  saved  Tessa  from 
any  incautious  revelation  to  her,  such  as  had  run 
off  her  tongue  in  talking  with  Baldassarre.  For  a 
long  while  Tito's  visits  were  so  rare  that  it  seemed 
likely  enough  he  took  journeys  between  them. 
They  were  prompted  chiefly  by  the  desire  to  see 
that  all  things  were  going  on  well  with  Tessa ;  and 
though  he  always  found  his  visit  pleasanter  than 
the  prospect  of  it,  —  always  felt  anew  the  charm  of 
that  pretty  ignorant  lovingness  and  trust, —  he  had 
not  yet  any  real  need  of  it.  But  he  was  deter- 
mined, if  possible,  to  preserve  the  simplicity  on 
which  the  charm  depended ;  to  keep  Tessa  a  genu- 
ine contadina,  and  not  place  the  small  field-flower 
among  conditions  that  would  rob  it  of  its  grace. 
He  would  have  been  shocked  to  see  her  in  the 
dress  of  any  other  rank  than  her  own ;  the  piquancy 
of  her  talk  would  be  all  gone,  if  things  began  to 
have  new  relations  for  her,  if  her  world  became 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE.  139 

wider,  her  pleasures  less  childish ;  and  the  squirrel- 
like enjoyment  of  nuts  at  discretion  marked  the 
standard  of  the  luxuries  he  had  provided  for  her. 
By  this  means  Tito  saved  Tessa's  charm  from  be- 
ing sullied ;  and  he  also,  by  a  convenient  coinci- 
dence, saved  himself  from  aggravating  expenses 
that  were  already  rather  importunate  to  a  man 
wliose  money  was  all  recpiired  for  his  avowed  habits 
of  life. 

This  in  brief  had  been  the  history  of  Tito's  rela- 
tion to  Tessa  up  to  a  very  recent  date.  It  is  true 
that  once  or  twice  before  Bardo's  death,  the  sense 
that  there  was  Tessa  up  the  hill,  with  whom  it 
was  possible  to  pass  an  hour  agreeably,  had  been  an 
inducement  to  him  to  escape  from  a  little  weariness 
of  the  old  man,  when,  for  lack  of  any  positive  engage- 
ment, he  might  otherwise  have  borne  the  weariness 
patiently  and  shared  Romola's  burden.  But  the  mo- 
ment when  he  had  first  felt  a  real  hunger  for  Tessa's 
ignorant  lovingness  and  belief  in  him  had  not  come 
till  quite  lately,  and  it  was  distinctly  marked  out 
by  circumstances  as  little  to  be  forgotten  as  the  on- 
coming of  a  malady  that  has  permanently  vitiated 
the  sight  and  hearing.  It  was  the  day  when  he 
had  first  seen  Baldassarre,  and  had  bought  the 
armour.  Returning  across  the  bridge  that  night, 
with  the  coat  of  mail  in  his  hands,  he  had  felt  an 
unconquerable  shrinking  from  an  immediate  en- 
counter with  Romola.  She,  too,  knew  little  of  the 
actual  world ;  she,  too,  trusted  him ;  but  lie  had 
an  unea.sy  consciousness  that  behind  her  frank  eyes 
there  was  a  nature  that  could  judge  him,  and  tliat 
any  ill-founded  trust  of  hers  sprang  not  from  pretty 
brute-like  incapacity,  but  from  a  nobleness  which 
might  prove  an  alarming  touchstone.      He  wanted 


I40  ROMOLA. 

a  little  ease,  a  little  repose  from  self-control,  after 
the  agitation  and  exertions  of  the  day ;  he  wanted 
to  be  where  he  could  adjust  his  mind  to  the  mor- 
row, without  caring  how  he  behaved  at  the  present 
moment.  And  there  was  a  sweet,  adoring  creature 
within  reach  whose  presence  was  as  safe  and  un- 
constraining  as  that  of  her  own  kids,  — who  would 
believe  any  fable,  and  remain  quite  unimpressed 
by  public  opinion.  And  so,  on  that  evening,  when 
Eomola  was  waiting  and  listening  for  him,  he 
turned  his  steps  up  the  hill. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  the  steps  took  the  same 
course  on  this  evening,  eleven  days  later,  when  he 
had  had  to  recoil  under  Romola's  first  outburst  of 
scorn.  He  could  not  wish  Tessa  in  his  wife's  place, 
or  refrain  from  wishing  that  his  wife  should  be  thor- 
oughly reconciled  to  him ;  for  it  was  Eomola,  and 
not  Tessa,  that  belonged  to  the  world  where  all  the 
larger  desires  of  a  man  who  had  ambition  and  effec- 
tive faculties  must  necessarily  lie.  But  he  wanted 
a  refuge  from  a  standard  disagreeably  rigorous,  of 
which  he  could  not  make  himself  independent 
simply  by  thinking  it  folly;  and  Tessa's  little  soul 
was  that  inviting  refuge. 

It  was  not  much  more  than  eight  o'clock  when 
he  went  up  the  stone  steps  to  the  door  of  Tessa's 
room.  Usually  she  heard  his  entrance  into  the 
house,  and  ran  to  meet  him,  but  not  to-nigiit ;  and 
when  he  ojDened  the  door  he  saw  the  reason.  A 
single  dim  light  was  burning  above  the  dying  fire, 
and  showed  Tessa  in  a  kneeling  attitude  by  the 
head  of  the  bed  where  the  baby  lay.  Her  head  had 
fallen  aside  on  the  pillow,  and  her  brown  rosary, 
which  usually  hung  above  the  pillow  over  the 
picture    of    the   Madonna   and    the   golden   palm- 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE.  141 

branches,  lay  in  the  loose  grasp  of  her  right  hand. 
She  had  gone  fast  asleep  over  her  beads.  Tito 
stepped  lightly  across  the  little  room,  and  sat  down 
close  to  her.  She  had  probably  heard  the  opening 
of  the  door  as  part  of  her  dream,  for  he  had  not 
been  looking  at  her  two  moments  before  she  opened 
her  eyes.  She  opened  them  without  any  start,  and 
remained  quite  motionless  looking  at  him,  as  if 
the  sense  that  he  was  there  smiling  at  her  shut 
out  any  impulse  which  could  disturb  that  happy 
passiveness.  But  when  he  put  his  hand  under  her 
chin,  and  stooped  to  kiss  her,   she  said,  • — 

"  I  dreamed  it,  and  then  I  said  it  was  dreaming, 
—  and  then  I  awoke,  and  it  was  true.  " 

"Little  sinner!"  said  Tito,  pinching  her  chin, 
"  you  have  not  said  half  your  prayers.  I  will  pun- 
ish you  by  not  looking  at  your  baby ;  it  is  ugly.  " 

Tessa  did  not  like  those  words,  even  though  Tito 
was  smiling.  She  had  some  pouting  distress  in 
her  face,  as  she  said,  bending  anxiously  over  the 
baby,  — 

"  Ah,  it  is  not  true !  He  is  prettier  than  any- 
thing. You  do  not  think  he  is  ugly.  You  will 
look  at  him.  He  is  even  prettier  than  when  you 
saw  him  before,  — only  he  's  asleep,  and  you  can't 
see  his  eyes  or  his  tongue,  and  I  can't  show  you 
his  hair — and  it  grows  —  isn't  that  wonderful? 
Look  at  him!  It 's  true  his  face  is  very  much  all 
alike  when  he  's  asleep,  there  is  not  so  much  to 
see  as  when  he  's  awake.  If  you  kiss  him  very 
gently,  he  won't  wake:  you  want  to  kiss  him,  is 
it  not  true  ?  " 

He  satisfied  her  by  giving  the  small  mummy  a 
butterfly  kiss,  and  then  putting  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder  and  turning  her  face  towards  him,  said, — 


J42  ROMOLA. 

"  You  like  looking  at  the  baby  better  tban  look- 
ing at  your  husband,  you  false  one.  " 

She  was  still  kneeling,  and  now  rested  her  hands 
on  his  knee,  looking  up  at  him  like  one  of  Fra 
Lippo  Lippi's  round-cheeked  adoring  angels. 

"  No, "  she  said,  shaking  her  head ;  "  I  love  you 
always  best,  only  I  want  you  to  look  at  the  bam- 
bino and  love  him.  I  used  only  to  want  you  to 
love  me. " 

"  And  did  you  expect  me  to  come  again  so  soon  ?" 
said  Tito,  inclined  to  make  her  prattle.  He  still 
felt  the  effects  of  the  agitation  he  had  undergone, 

—  still  felt  like  a  man  who  has  been  violently 
jarred ;  and  this  was  the  easiest  relief  from  silence 
and  solitude. 

"  Ah,  no, "  said  Tessa,  "  I  have  counted  the  days 

—  to-day  I  began  at  my  right  thumb  again  —  since 
you  put  on  the  beautiful  chain-coat  that  Messer 
San  Michele  gave  you  to  take  care  of  you  on  your 
journey.  And  you  have  got  it  on  now, "  she  said, 
peeping  through  the  opening  in  the  breast  of  his 
tunic.     "  Perhaps  it  made  you  come  back  sooner.  " 

"Perhaps  it  did,  Tessa,"  he  said.  "But  don't 
mind  the  coat  now.  Tell  me  what  has  happened 
since  I  was  here.  Did  you  see  the  tents  in  the 
Prato,  and  the  soldiers  and  horsemen  when  they 
passed  the  bridges,  • —  did  you  hear  the  drums  and 
trumpets  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  I  was  rather  frightened,  because  I 
thought  the  soldiers  might  come  up  here.  And 
Monna  Lisa  was  a  little  afraid  too,  for  she  said 
they  might  carry  our  kids  off;  she  said  it  was  their 
business  to  do  mischief.  But  the  Holy  Madonna 
took  care  of  us,  for  we  never  saw  one  of  them  up. 
here.     But  something  has  happened,  only  I  hardly 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE.  143 

dare  tell  you,  and  that  is  what  I  was  saying  more 
Aves  for.  " 

"  "What  do  you  mean,  Tessa  ? "  said  Tito,  rather 
anxiously.      "  Make  haste  and  tell  me. " 

"  Yes,  but  will  you  let  me  sit  on  your  knee  ?  be- 
cause then  I  think  I  shall  not  be  so  frightened.  " 

He  took  her  on  his  knee,  and  put  his  arm  round 
her,  but  looked  grave :  it  seemed  that  something 
unpleasant  must  pursue  him  even  here. 

"  At  first  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you,"  said  Tessa, 
speaking  almost  in  a  whisper,  as  if  that  would 
mitigate  the  offence;  "  because  we  thought  the  old 
man  would  be  gone  away  before  you  came  again, 
and  it  would  be  as  if  it  had  not  been.  But  now  he 
is  there,  and  you  are  come,  and  I  never  did  any- 
thing you  told  me  not  to  do  before.  And  I  want 
to  tell  you,  and  then  you  will  perhaps  forgive  me, 
for  it  is  a  long  while  before  I  go  to  confession. " 

"  Yes,  tell  me  everything,  my  Tessa. "  He  began 
to  hop3  it  was,  after  all,  a  trivial  matter. 

"  Oh,  you  will  be  sorry  for  him :  I  'm  afraid  he 
cries  about  something  when  I  don't  see  him.  But 
that  was  not  the  reason  I  went  to  him  first;  it 
was  because  I  wanted  to  talk  to  him  and  show  him 
my  baby,  and  he  was  a  stranger  that  lived  nowhere, 
and  I  thought  you  wouldn't  care  so  much  about 
my  talking  to  him.  And  I  think  he  is  not  a  bad 
old  man,  and  he  wanted  to  come  and  sleep  on  the 
straw  next  to  the  goats,  and  I  made  Monna  Lisa 
say,  'Yes,  he  might,'  and  he's  away  all  the  day 
almost ;  but  when  he  comes  back  I  talk  to  him,  and 
take  him  something  to  eat." 

"  Some  beggar,  I  suppose.  It  was  naughty  of 
you,  Tessa,  and  I  am  angry  with  Monna  Lisa.  I 
must  have  him  sent  away.  ° 


144  ROMOLA. 

"  No,  I  think  he  is  not  a  beggar,  for  he  wanted 
to  pay  Monna  Lisa,  only  she  asked  him  to  do 
work  for  her  instead.  And  he  gets  himself  shaved, 
and  his  clothes  are  tidy :  Monna  Lisa  says  he  is  a 
decent  man.  But  sometimes  I  think  he  is  not  in 
his  right  mind  :  Lupo,  at  Peretola,  was  not  in  his 
right  mind,  and  he  looks  a  little  like  Lupo  some- 
times,  as  if  he  didn't  know  where  he  was." 

"  What  sort  of  face  has  he  ?  "  said  Tito,  his  heart 
beginning  to  beat  strangely.  He  was  so  ha-unted 
by  the  thought  of  Baldassarre,  that  it  was  already 
he  whom  he  saw  in  imagination  sitting  on  the 
straw  not  many  yards  from  him,  "  Fetch  your 
stool,  my  Tessa,  and  sit  on  it. " 

"  Shall  you  not  forgive  me  ?  "  she  said  timidly, 
moving  from  his  knee. 

"  Yes,  I  will  not  be  angry,  — only  sit  down,  and 
tell  me  what  sort  of  old  man  this  is. " 

"  I  can't  think  how  to  tell  you:  he  is  not  like 
my  stepfather  Nofri,  or  anybody.  His  face  is  yel- 
low, and  he  has  deep  marks  in  it;  and  his  hair  is 
white,  but  there  is  none  on  the  top  of  his  head : 
and  his  eyebrows  are  black,  and  he  looks  from  un- 
der them  at  me,  and  says,  '  Poor  thing !  '  to  me,  as 
if  he  thought  I  was  beaten  as  I  used  to  be ;  and 
that  seems  as  if  he  couldn't  be  in  his  right 
mind,  doesn't  it?  And  I  asked  him  his  name 
once,  but  he  couldn't  tell  me:  yet  everybody  has 
a  name, —  is  it  not  true  ?  And  he  has  a  book  now, 
and  keeps  looking  at  it  ever  so  long,  as  if  he  were 
a  Padre.  But  I  think  he  is  not  saying  prayers,  for 
his  lips  never  move ;  —  ah,  you  are  angry  with  me, 
or  is  it  because  you  are  sorry  for  the  old  man  ?  " 

Tito's  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  Tessa ;  but  he  had 
ceased  to  see  her,  and  was  only  seeing  the  objects 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE.  145 

her  words  suggested.  It  was  this  absent  glance 
which  frightened  her,  and  she  could  not  help  going 
to  kneel  at  his  side  again.  But  he  did  not  heed 
her,  and  she  dared  not  touch  him  or  speak  to  him  : 
she  knelt,  trembling  and  wondering ;  and  this  state 
of  mind  suggesting  her  beads  to  her,  she  took  them 
from  the  lioor,  and  began  to  tell  them  again,  her 
pretty  lips  moving  silently,  and  her  blue  eyes  wide 
with  anxiety  and  struggling  tears. 

Tito  was  quite  unconscious  of  her  movements, 
unconscious  of  his  own  attitude;  he  was  in  that 
rapt  state  in  which  a  man  will  grasp  painful  rough- 
ness, and  press  and  press  it  closer,  and  never  feel 
it.  A  new  possibility  had  risen  before  him  which 
might  dissolve  at  once  the  wretched  conditions  of 
fear  and  suppression  that  were  marring  his  life. 
Destiny  had  brought  within  his  reach  an  opportu- 
nity of  retrieving  that  moment  on  the  steps  of  the 
Duomo,  when  tlie  Past  had  grasped  him  with  liv- 
ing quivering  hands,  and  he  had  disowned  it.  A 
few  steps,  and  he  might  be  face  to  face  with  his 
father,  with  no  witness  by ;  he  might  seek  forgive- 
ness and  reconciliation  ;  and  there  was  money  now, 
from  the  sale  of  the  library,  to  enable  them  to 
leave  Florence  without  disclosure,  and  go  into 
Southern  Italy,  where  under  the  probable  French 
rule  he  had  already  laid  a  foundation  for  patron- 
age. Romola  need  never  know  the  whole  truth, 
for  she  could  have  no  certain  means  of  identifying 
that  prisoner  in  the  Duomo  with  Baldassarre,  or  of 
learning  what  had  taken  place  on  the  steps,  except 
from  Baldassarre  himself;  and  if  his  father  forgave, 
he  would  also  consent  to  bury,  that  ofi'ence. 

But  with  this  possibility  of  relief,   by  an  easy 
spring,  from  present  evil,  there  rose  the  other  pos- 

VOL.  II. — 10 


146  ROMOLA. 

sibility,  that  the  fierce-hearted  man  might  refuse 
to  be  propitiated.  Well  —  and  if  he  did,  things 
would  only  be  as  they  had  been  before ;  for  there 
would  be  no  witness  hy.  It  was  not  repentance 
with  a  white  sheet  round  it  and  taper  in  hand, 
confessing  its  hated  sin  in  the  eyes  of  men,  that 
Tito  was  preparing  for :  it  was  a  repentance  that 
would  make  all  things  pleasant  again,  and  keep  all 
past  unpleasant  things  secret.  And  Tito's  soft- 
heartedness,  his  indisposition  to  feel  himself  in 
harsh  relations  with  any  creature,  was  in  strong 
activity  towards  his  father,  now  his  father  was 
brought  near  to  him.  It  would  be  a  state  of  ease  that 
his  nature  could  not  but  desire,  if  the  poisonous 
hatred  in  Baldassarre's  glance  could  be  replaced  by 
something  of  the  old  affection  and  complacency. 

Tito  longed  to  have  his  world  once  again  com- 
pletely cushioned  with  good-will,  and  longed  for  it 
the  more  eagerly  because  of  what  he  had  just  suffered 
from  the  collision  with  Eomola.  It  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  him  to  smile  pleadingly  on  those  whom  he 
had  injured,  and  offer  to  do  them  much  kindness : 
and  no  quickness  of  intellect  could  tell  him  exactly 
the  taste  of  that  honey  on  the  lips  of  the  injured. 
The  opportunity  was  there,  and  it  raised  an  incli- 
nation which  hemmed  in  the  calculating  activity 
of  his  thought.  He  started  up,  and  stepped  towards 
the  door ;  but  Tessa's  cry,  as  she  dropped  her  beads, 
roused  him  from  his  absorption.  He  turned  and 
said,  — 

"  My  Tessa,  get  me  a  lantern ;  and  don't  cry, 
little  pigeon,   I  am  not  angry.  " 

They  went  down  the  stairs,  and  Tessa  was  going 
to  shout  the  need  of  the  lantern  in  Monna  Lisa's 
ear,  when  Tito,   who  had  opened  the  door,  said : 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE.  147 

"  Stay,  Tessa  —  no,  I  want  no  lantern:  go  upstairs 
again,  and  keep  quiet,  and  say  nothing  to  Mouna 
Lisa. " 

In  half  a  minute  he  stood  before  the  closed  door 
of  the  outhouse,  where  the  moon  was  shining  white 
on  the  old  paintless  wood. 

In  this  last  decisive  moment  Tito  felt  a  tremor 
upon  him, —  a  sudden  instinctive  shrinking  from  a 
possible  tiger-glance,  a  possible  tiger-leap.  Yet  why 
should  he,  a  young  man,  be  afraid  of  an  old  one  ? 
a  young  man  with  armour  on,  of  an  old  man  with- 
out a  weapon  ?  It  was  but  a  moment's  hesitation, 
and  Tito  laid  his  hand  on  the  door.  Was  his  father 
asleep  ?  Was  there  nothing  else  but  the  door  that 
screened  him  from  the  voice  and  the  glance  which 
no  magic  could  turn  into  ease? 

Baldassarre  was  not  asleep.  There  was  a  square 
opening  high  in  the  wall  of  the  hovel,  through 
which  the  moonbeams  sent  in  a  stream  of  pale 
light;  and  if  Tito  could  have  looked  through  the 
opening,  he  would  have  seen  his  father  seated  on 
the  straw,  with  something  that  shone  like  a  white 
star  in  his  hand.  Baldassarre  was  feeling  the  edge 
of  his  poniard,  taking  refuge  in  that  sensation  from 
a  hopeless  blank  of  thought  that  seemed  to  lie  like 
a  great  gulf  between  his  passion  and  its  aim. 

He  was  in  one  of  his  most  wretched  moments  of 
conscious  helplessness :  he  had  been  poring,  while 
it  was  light,  over  the  book  that  lay  open  beside 
him ;  then  he  had  been  trying  to  recall  the  names 
of  liis  jewels,  and  the  symbols  engraved  on  them ; 
and  though  at  certain  other  times  he  had  recovered 
some  of  those  names  and  symbols,  to-night  they 
were  all  gone  into  darkness.  And  this  eflTort  at 
inward  seeing  had  seemed  to  end  in  utter  paralysis 


148  ROMOLA. 

of  memory.  He  was  reduced  to  a  sort  of  mad  con- 
sciousness that  he  was  a  solitary  pulse  of  just  rage 
in  a  world  filled  with  defiant  baseness.  He  had 
clutched  and  unsheathed  his  dagger,  and  for  a  long 
while  had  been  feeling  its  edge,  his  mind  narrowed 
to  one  image,  and  the  dream  of  one  sensation,  —  the 
sensation  of  plunging  that  dagger  into  a  base  heart, 
which  he  was  unable  to  pierce  in  any  other  way. 

Tito  had  his  hand  on  the  door  and  was  pulling 
it:  it  dragged  against  the  ground,  as  such  old' doors 
often  do ;  and  Baldassarre,  startled  out  of  his 
dreamlike  state,  rose  from  his  sitting  posture  in 
vague  amazement,  not  knowing  where  he  was.  He 
had  not  yet  risen  to  his  feet,  and  was  still  kneel- 
ing on  one  knee,  when  the  door  came  wide  open, 
and  he  saw,  dark  against  the  moonlight,  with  the 
rays  falling  on  one  bright  mass  of  curls  and  one 
rounded  olive  cheek,  the  image  of  his  re  very,  —  not 
shadowy,  —  close  and  real  like  water  at  the  lips 
after  the  thirsty  dream  of  it.  No  thought  could  come 
athwart  that  eager  thirst.  In  one  moment,  before 
Tito  could  start  back,  the  old  man,  with  the  preter- 
natural force  of  rage  in  his  limbs,  had  sprung  for- 
ward, and  the  dagger  had  flashed  out.  In  the  next 
moment  the  dagger  had  snapped  in  two ;  and  Bal- 
dassarre, under  the  parrying  force  of  Tito's  arm, 
had  fallen  back  on  the  straw,  clutching  the  hilt 
with  its  bit  of  broken  blade.  The  pointed  end  lay 
shining  against  Tito's  feet. 

Tito  had  felt  one  great  heart-leap  of  terror  as  he 
had  staggered  under  the  weight  of  the  thrust :  he 
felt  now  the  triumph  of  deliverance  and  safety. 
His  armour  had  been  proved,  and  vengeance  lay 
helpless  before  him.  But  the  triumph  raised  no 
devilish  impulse ;  on  the  contrary,  the  sight  of  his 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE.  149 

father  close  to  him  and  unable  to  injure  him  made 
the  effort  at  reconciliation  easier.  He  was  free 
from  fear,  but  he  had  only  the  more  unmixed  and 
direct  want  to  be  free  from  the  sense  that  he  was 
hated.  After  they  had  looked  at  each  other  a  little 
while,  Baldassarre  lying  motionless  in  despairing 
rage,  Tito  said  in  his  soft  tones,  just  as  they  had 
sounded  before  the  last  parting  on  the  shores  of 
Greece,  — 

"  Padre  mio  !  "  There  was  a  pause  after  those 
words,  but  no  movement  or  sound  till  he  said,  — 

"  I  came  to  ask  your  forgiveness !  " 

Again  he  paused,  that  the  healing  balm  of  those 
words  might  have  time  to  work.  But  there  was  no 
sign  of  change  in  Baldassarre :  he  lay  as  he  had 
fallen,  leaning  on  one  arm :  he  was  trembling,  but 
it  was  from  the  shock  that  had  thrown  him  down. 

"  I  was  taken  by  surprise  that  morning.  I  wish 
now  to  be  a  son  to  you  again.  I  wish  to  make  the 
rest  of  your  life  happy,  that  you  may  forget  what 
you  have  suffered.  " 

He  paused  again.  He  had  used  the  clearest  and 
strongest  words  he  could  think  of.  It  was  useless 
to  say  more,  until  he  had  some  sign  that  Baldassarre 
understood  him.  Perhaps  his  mind  was  too  dis- 
tempered or  too  imbecile  even  for  that ;  perhaps 
the  shock  of  his  fall  and  his  disappointed  rage 
might  have  quite  suspended  the  use  of  his 
faculties. 

Presently  Baldassarre  began  to  move.  He  threw 
away  the  broken  dagger,  and  slowly  and  gradually, 
still  trembling,  began  to  raise  himself  from  the 
ground.  Tito  put  out  his  hand  to  help  him ;  and 
so  strangely  quick  are  men's  souls  that  in  this  mo- 
ment,  when  he  began  to  feel  his  atonement  was 


I50  ROMOLA. 

accepted,  he  had  a  darting  thought  of  the  irksome 
efforts  it  entailed.  Baldassarre  clutched  the  hand 
that  was  held  out,  raised  himself  and  clutched  it 
still,  going  close  up  to  Tito  till  their  faces  were 
not  a  foot  off  each  other.  Then  he  began  to  speak, 
in  a  deep  trembling  voice. 

"I  saved  you  —  I  nurtured  you  —  I  loved  you. 
You  forsook  me  —  you  robbed  me  —  you  denied  me. 
What  can  you  give  me  ?  You  have  made  the  world 
bitterness  to  me  :  but  there  is  one  draught  of  sweet- 
ness left,  —  that  you  shall  know  agony.  " 

He  let  fall  Tito's  hand,  and  going  backwards  a 
little,  first  rested  his  arm  on  a  projecting  stone  in 
the  wall,  and  then  sank  again  in  a  sitting  posture 
on  the  straw.  The  outleap  of  fury  in  the  dagger- 
thrust  had  evidently  exhausted  him. 

Tito  stood  silent.  If  it  had  been  a  deep  yearning 
emotion  which  had  brought  him  to  ask  his  father's 
forgiveness,  the  denial  of  it  might  have  caused  him 
a  pang  which  would  have  excluded  the  rushing 
train  of  thought  that  followed  those  decisive  words. 
As  it  was,  though  the  sentence  of  unchangeable 
hatred  grated  on  him  and  jarred  him  terribly,  his 
mind  glanced  round  with  a  self-preserving  instinct 
to  see  how  far  those  words  could  have  the  force  of 
a  substantial  threat.  When  he  had  come  down  to 
speak  to  Baldassarre,  he  had  said  to  himself  that  if 
his  effort  at  reconciliation  failed,  things  would  only 
be  as  they  had  been  before.  The  first  glance  of  his 
mind  was  backward  to  that  thought  again,  but  the 
future  possibilities  of  danger  that  were  conjured  up 
along  with  it  brought  the  perception  that  things 
were  7iot  as  they  had  been  before,  and  the  percep- 
tion came  as  a  triumphant  relief.  There  was  not 
only  the  broken  dagger,   there  was  the  certainty. 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE.  151 

from  what  Tessa  had  told  him,  that  Baldassarre's 
mind  was  broken  too,  and  had  no  edge  that  could 
reach  him.  Tito  felt  he  had  no  choice  now :  he 
must  defy  Baldassarre  as  a  mad,  imbecile  old  man ; 
and  the  chances  were  so  strongly  on  his  side  that 
there  was  hardly  room  for  fear.  No;  except  the 
fear  of  having  to  do  many  unpleasant  things  in 
order  to  save  himself  from  what  was  yet  more  un- 
pleasant. And  one  of  those  unpleasant  things  must 
be  done  immediately  :  it  was  very  difficult. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  stay  here  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No, "  said  Baldassarre,  bitterly,  "  you  mean  to 
turn  me  out. " 

"  Not  so, "  said  Tito  ;  "  I  only  ask.  " 

"  I  tell  you,  you  have  turned  me  out.  If  it  is 
your  straw,  you  turned  me  off  it  three  years  ago.  " 

"  Then  you  mean  to  leave  this  place  ? "  said  Tito, 
more  anxious  about  this  certainty  than  the  ground 
of  it. 

"  I  have  spoken,  "said  Baldassarre. 

Tito  turned  and  re-entered  the  house.  Monna 
Lisa  was  nodding ;  he  went  up  to  Tessa,  and  found 
her  crying  by  the  side  of  her  baby. 

"  Tessa, "  he  said,  sitting  down  and  taking  her 
head  between  his  hands ;  "  leave  off  crying,  little 
goose,  and  listen  to  me. " 

He  lifted  her  chin  upward,  that  she  might  look 
at  him,  while  he  spoke  very  distinctly  and 
emphatically. 

"  You  must  never  speak  to  that  old  man  again. 
He  is  a  mad  old  man,  and  he  wants  to  kill  me. 
Never  speak  to  him  or  listen  to  him  again. " 

Tessa's  tears  had  ceased,  and  her  lips  were  pale 
with  fright. 

"  Is  he  gone  away  ? "  she  whispered. 


1 52  ROMOLA. 

"  He  will  go  away.  Eemember  what  I  have  said 
to  you.  " 

"  Yes ;  I  will  never  speak  to  a  stranger  any 
.more,"  said  Tessa,  with  a  sense  of  guilt. 

He  told  her,  to  comfort  her,  that  he  would  come 
again  to-morrow;  and  then  went  down  to  Monna 
Lisa  to  rebuke  her  severely  for  letting  a  dangerous 
man  come  about  the  house. 

Tito  felt  that  these  were  odious  tasks  ;  they  were 
very  evil-tasted  morsels,  but  they  were  forced  -upon 
him.  He  heard  Monna  Lisa  fasten  the  door  behind 
him,  and  turned  away,  without  looking  towards  the 
open  door  of  the  hovel.  He  felt  secure  that  Bal- 
dassarre  would  go,  and  he  could  not  wait  to  see 
him  go.  Even  his  young  frame  and  elastic  spirit 
were  shattered  by  the  agitations  that  had  been 
crowded  into  this  single  evening. 

Baldassarre  was  still  sitting  on  the  straw  when 
the  shadow  of  Tito  passed  by.  Before  him  lay  the 
fragments  of  the  broken  dagger ;  beside  him  lay  the 
open  book,  over  which  he  had  pored  in  vain.  They 
looked  like  mocking  symbols  of  his  utter  helpless- 
ness ;  and  his  body  was  still  too  trembling  for  him 
to  rise  and  walk  away. 

But  the  next  morning  very  early,  when  Tessa 
peeped  anxiously  through  the  hole  in  the  shutter, 
the  door  of  the  hovel  was  open,  and  the  strange  old 
man  was  gone. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

\VIIAT   FLORENCE   WAS   THINKING    OF. 

For  several  days  Tito  saw  little  of  Romola.  He 
told  her  gently,  the  next  morning,  that  it  would  be 
better  for  her  to  remove  any  small  articles  of  her 
own  from  the  library,  as  there  would  be  agents 
coming  to  pack  up  the  antiquities.  Then,  leaning 
to  kiss  her  on  the  brow,  he  suggested  that  she 
should  keep  in  her  own  room  where  the  little  painted 
tabernacle  was,  and  where  she  was  then  sitting,  so 
that  she  might  be  away  from  the  noise  of  strange 
footsteps.  Romola  assented  quietly,  making  no 
sign  of  emotion :  the  night  had  been  one  long  wak- 
ing to  her,  and,  in  spite  of  her  healthy  frame,  sen- 
sation had  become  a  dull  continuous  pain,  as  if  she 
had  been  stunned  and  bruised.  Tito  divined  that 
she  felt  ill,  but  he  dared  say  no  more ;  he  only 
dared,  perceiving  that  her  hand  and  brow  were 
stone  cold,  to  fetch  a  furred  mantle  and  throw  it 
lightly  round  her.  And  in  every  brief  interval 
that  he  returned  to  her,  the  scene  was  nearly  the 
same :  he  tried  to  propitiate  her  by  some  unobtru- 
sive act  or  word  of  tenderness,  and  she  seemed  to 
have  lost  the  power  of  speaking  to  him,  or  of  look- 
ing at  him.  "Patience!"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  She  will  recover  it,  and  forgive  at  last.  The  tie 
to  me  must  still  remain  the  strongest."  Wlien  the 
stricken  person  is  slow  to  recover  and  look  as  if 


154  ROMOLA. 

nothing  had  happened,  the  striker  easily  glides 
into  the  position  of  the  aggrieved  party ;  he  feels  no 
bruise  himself,  and  is  strongly  conscious  of  his  own 
amiable  behaviour  since  he  inflicted  the  blow.  But 
Tito  was  not  naturally  disposed  to  feel  himself  ag- 
grieved ;  the  constant  bent  of  his  mind  was  towards 
propitiation,  and  he  would  have  submitted  to  much 
for  the  sake  of  feeling  Romola's  hand  resting  on 
his  head  again,  as  it  did  that  morning  when  he 
first  shrank  from  looking  at  her. 

But  he  found  it  the  less  difficult  to  wait  pa- 
tiently for  the  return  of  his  home  happiness, 
because  his  life  out  of  doors  was  more  and  more 
interesting  to  him.  A  course  of  action  which 
is  in  strictness  a  slowly  prepared  outgrowth  of 
the  entire  character,  is  yet  almost  always  trace- 
able to  a  single  impression  as  its  point  of 
apparent  origin;  and  since  that  moment  in  the 
Piazza  del  Duomo,  when  Tito,  mounted  on  the 
bales,  had  tasted  a  keen  pleasure  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  his  ability  to  tickle  the  ears  of  men  with 
any  phrases  that  pleased  them,  his  imagination  had 
glanced  continually  towards  a  sort  of  political  ac- 
tivity which  the  troubled  public  life  of  Florence 
was  likely  enough  to  find  occasion  for.  But  the 
fresh  dread  of  Baldassarre,  waked  in  the  same  mo- 
ment, had  lain  like  an  immovable  rocky  obstruc- 
tion across  that  path,  and  had  urged  him  into  the 
sale  of  the  library,  as  a  preparation  for  the  possible 
necessity  of  leaving  Florence,  at  the  very  time 
when  he  was  beginning  to  feel  that  it  had  a  new 
attraction  for  him.  That  dread  was  nearly  re- 
moved now :  he  must  wear  his  armour  still, 
he  must  prepare  himself  for  possible  demands 
on  his  coolness    and    ingenuity,    but   he   did   not 


Of  THE 


WHAT  FLORENCE  WAS  THINKING  OF.       155 

feel  obliged  to  take  the  inconvenient  step  of 
leaving  Florence  and  seeking  new  fortunes.  His 
father  had  refused  the  offered  atonement,  —  had 
forced  him  into  defiance ;  and  an  old  man  in  a 
strange  place,  with  his  memory  gone,  was  weak 
enough  to  be  defied. 

Tito's  implicit  desires  were  working  themselves 
out  now  in  very  explicit  thoughts.  As  the  fresh- 
ness of  young  passion  faded,  life  was  taking  more 
and  more  decidedly  for  him  the  aspect  of  a  game 
in  which  there  was  an  agreeable  mingling  of  skill 
and  chance. 

And  the  game  that  might  be  played  in  Florence 
promised  to  be  rapid  and  exciting ;  it  was  a  game 
of  revolutionary  and  party  struggle,  sure  to  include 
plenty  of  that  unavowed  action  in  which  brilliant 
ingenuity,  able  to  get  rid  of  all  inconvenient  beliefs 
except  that  "  ginger  is  hot  in  the  mouth, "  is  apt  to 
see  the  path  of  superior  wisdom. 

Xo  sooner  were  the  French  guests  gone  than 
Florence  was  as  agitated  as  a  colony  of  ants  when 
an  alarming  shadow  has  been  removed,  and  the 
camp  has  to  be  repaired.  "  How  are  we  to  raise  the 
money  for  the  French  king  ?  How  are  we  to  man- 
age the  war  with  those  obstinate  Pisan  rebels  ? 
Above  all,  how  are  we  to  mend  our  plan  of  govern- 
ment, so  as  to  hit  on  the  best  way  of  getting  our 
magistrates  chosen  and  our  laws  voted  ? "  Till 
those  questions  were  well  answered  trade  was  in 
danger  of  standing  still,  and  that  large  body  of  the 
working  men  who  were  not  counted  as  citizens  and 
had  not  so  much  as  a  vote  to  serve  as  an  anodyne 
to  their  stomachs  were  likely  to  get  impatient. 
Sometliing  must  be  done. 

And  first  the  great  bell  was  sounded,  to  call  the 


156  ROMOLA. 

citizens  to  a  parliament  in  the  Piazza  de'  Signori ; 
and  when  the  crowd  was  wedged  close,  and  hemmed 
in  by  armed  men  at  all  the  outlets,  the  Signoria  (or 
Gonfaloniere  and  eight  Priors  for  the  time  being) 
came  out  and  stood  by  the  stone  lion  on  the  plat- 
form in  front  of  the  Old  Palace,  and  proposed  that 
twenty  chief  men  of  the  city  should  have  dictato- 
rial authority  given  them,  by  force  of  which  they 
should  for  one  year  choose  all  magistrates,  and  set 
the  frame  of  government  in  order.  And  the  people 
shouted  their  assent,  and  felt  themselves  the  elec- 
tors of  the  Twenty.  This  kind  of  "  Parliament " 
was  a  very  old  Florentine  fashion,  by  which  the 
will  of  the  few  was  made  to  seem  the  choice  of  the 
many. 

The  shouting  in  the  piazza  was  soon  at  an  end, 
but  not  so  the  debating  inside  the  palace :  was 
Florence  to  have  a  Great  Council  after  the  Vene- 
tian mode,  where  all  the  officers  of  government 
might  be  elected,  and  all  laws  voted  by  a  wide 
number  of  citizens  of  a  certain  age  and  of  ascer- 
tained qualifications,  without  question  of  rank  or 
party  ?  or  was  it  to  be  governed  on  a  narrower  and 
less  popular  scheme,  in  which  the  hereditary  influ- 
ence of  good  families  would  be  less  adulterated  with 
the  votes  of  shopkeepers  ?  Doctors  of  law  disputed 
day  after  day,  and  far  on  into  the  night.  Messer 
Pasolantonio  Soderini  alleged  excellent  reasons  on 
the  side  of  the  popular  scheme ;  Messer  Guidantonio 
Vespucci  alleged  reasons  equally  excellent  on  the 
side  of  a  more  aristocratic  form.  It  was  a  question 
of  boiled  or  roast,  which  had  been  prejudged  by  the 
palates  of  the  disputants  ;  and  the  excellent  arguing 
might  have  been  protracted  a  long  while  without 
any  other  result  than  that  of  deferring  the  cooking. 


WHAT  FLORENCE  WAS  THINKING  OF.      157 

The  majority  of  the  men  inside  the  palace,  having 
power  already  in  their  hands,  agreed  with  Yespucci, 
and  thought  change  should  be  moderate ;  the  ma- 
jority outside  the  palace,  conscious  of  little  power 
and  many  grievances,  were  less  afraid  of  change. 

And  there  was  a  force  outside  the  palace  which 
was  gradually  tending  to  give  the  vague  desires  of 
that  majority  the  character  of  a  determinate  will. 
That  force  was  the  preaching  of  Savonarola.  Im- 
pelled partly  by  the  spiritual  necessity  that  was 
laid  upon  him  to  guide  tlie  people,  and  partly  by 
the  prompting  of  public  men  who  could  get  no 
measures  carried  without  his  aid,  he  was  rapidly 
passing  in  his  daily  sermons  from  the  general  to 
the  special,  —  from  telling  his  hearers  that  they 
must  postpone  their  private  passions  and  interests 
to  the  public  good,  to  telling  them  precisely  what 
sort  of  government  they  must  have  in  order  to  pro- 
mote that  good,  —  from  "  Choose  whatever  is  best 
for  all, "  to  "  Choose  the  Great  Council, "  and  "  The 
Great  Council  is  the  will  of  God. " 

To  Savonarola  these  were  as  good  as  identical 
propositions.  The  Great  Council  was  the  only 
practicable  plan  for  giving  an  expression  to  the 
public  will  large  enough  to  counteract  the  vitiating 
iniluence  of  party  interests :  it  was  a  plan  that 
would  make  honest  impartial  public  action  at  least 
possible.  And  the  purer  the  government  of  Flor- 
ence would  become  —  the  more  secure  from  the  de- 
signs of  men  who  saw  their  own  advantage  in  the 
moral  debasement  of  their  fellows  —  the  nearer 
would  the  Florentine  people  approach  the  character 
of  a  pure  community,  worthy  to  lead  the  way  in 
the  renovation  of  the  Church  and  the  world.  And 
Fra  Girulamo's  mind  never  stopped  short  of  that 


158  ROMOLA. 

sublimest  end :  the  objects  towards  which  he  felt 
himself  working  had  always  the  same  moral  mag- 
nificence. He  had  no  private  malice,  —  he  sought 
no  petty  gratification.  Even  in  the  last  terrible 
days,  when  ignominy,  torture,  and  the  fear  of  tor- 
ture had  laid  bare  every  hidden  weakness  of  his 
soul,  he  could  say  to  his  importunate  judges  :  "  Do 
not  wonder  if  it  seems  to  you  that  I  have  told  but 
few  things ;  for  my  purposes  were  few  and  great.  "  ^ 

1  "  Se  vi  pare  che  io  abbia  detto  poche  cose,  non  ve  ne  maravi- 
gliate,  perchij  le  mie  cose  erano  poche  e  graudi." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ARIADNE   DISCROWNS   HERSELF, 

It  was  more  than  three  weeks  before  the  contents 
of  the  library  were  all  packed  and  carried  away. 
And  Iiomola,  instead  of  shutting  her  eyes  and  ears, 
had  watched  the  process.  The  exhaustion  conse- 
quent on  violent  emotion  is  apt  to  bring  a  dreamy 
disbelief  in  the  reality  of  its  cause;  and  in  the 
evening,  when  the  workmen  were  gone,  Eomola 
took  her  hand-lamp  and  walked  slowly  round 
among  the  confusion  of  straw  and  wooden  cases, 
pausing  at  every  vacant  pedestal,  every  well-known 
object  laid  prostrate,  with  a  sort  of  bitter  desire  to 
assure  herself  that  there  was  a  sufficient  reason  why 
her  love  was  gone  and  the  world  was  barren  for  her. 
And  still,  as  the  evenings  came,  she  went  and  went 
again  ;  no  longer  to  assure  herself,  but  because  this 
vivifying  of  pain  and  desj)air  about  her  father's 
memory  was  the  strongest  life  left  to  her  affections. 
On  the  23d  of  December  she  knew  that  the  last 
packages  were  going.  She  ran  to  the  loggia  at  the 
top  of  the  house,  that  she  might  not  lose  the  last 
pang  of  seeing  the  slow  wheels  move  across  tlie 
bridge. 

It  was  a  cloudy  day,  and  nearing  dusk.  Arno 
ran  dark  and  shivering;  the  hills  were  mourn- 
ful ;  and  Florence  with  its  girdling  stone  towers 
had  that  silent,  tomb -like  look,  which  unbroken 


i6o  KOMOLA. 

shadow  gives  to  a  city  seen  from  above.  Santa 
Croce,  where  her  father  lay,  was  dark  amidst  that 
darkness  ;  and  slowly  crawling  over  the  bridge,  and 
slowly  vanishing  up  the  narrow  street,  was  the 
white  load,  like  a  cruel,  deliberate  Fate  carrying 
away  her  father's  lifelong  hope  to  bury  it  in  an 
unmarked  grave.  Eomola  felt  less  that  she  was 
seeing  this  herself  than  that  her  father  was  con- 
scious of  it  as  he  lay  helpless  under  the  imprison- 
incr  stones,  where  her  hand  could  not  reach  his  to 
tell  him  that  he  was  not  alone. 

She  stood  still  even  after  the  load  had  disap- 
peared, heedless  of  the  cold,  and  soothed  by  the 
gloom  which  seemed  to  cover  her  like  a  mourning 
garment  and  shut  out  the  discord  of  joy.  When 
suddenly  the  great  bell  in  the  palace-tower  rang 
out  a  mighty  peal ;  not  the  hammer-sound  of  alarm, 
but  an  agitated  peal  of  triumph ;  and  one  after  an- 
other every  other  bell  in  every  other  tower  seemed 
to  catch  the  vibration  and  join  the  chorus.  And  as 
the  chorus  swelled  and  swelled  till  the  air  seemed 
made  of  sound,  little  flames,  vibrating  too,  as  if  the 
sound  had  caught  fire,  burst  out  between  the  turrets 
of  the  palace  and  on  the  girdling  towers. 

That  sudden  clang,  that  leaping  light,  fell  on 
Eomola  like  sharp  wounds.  They  were  the  tri- 
umph of  demons  at  the  success  of  her  husband's 
treachery,  and  the  desolation  of  her  life.  Little 
more  than  three  weeks  ago  she  had  been  intoxi- 
cated with  the  sound  of  those  very  bells ;  and  in 
the  gladness  of  Florence  she  had  heard  a  prophecy 
of  her  own  gladness.  But  now  the  general  joy 
seemed  cruel  to  her :  she  stood  aloof  from  that 
common  life,  —  that  Florence  which  was  flinging 
out  its  loud  exultation  to  stun  the  ears  of  sorrow 


UBRARV 
OF  THE 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF.  i6i 

and  loneliness.  She  could  never  join  hands  with 
gladness  again,  but  only  with  those  whom  it  was 
in  the  hard  nature  of  gladness  to  forget.  And  in 
her  bitterness  she  felt  that  all  rejoicing  was  mock- 
ery. Men  shouted  paeans  with  their  souls  full  of 
heaviness,  and  then  looked  in  their  neighbours' 
faces  to  see  if  there  was  really  such  a  thing  as  joy. 
Romola  had  lost  her  belief  in  the  happiness  she 
had  once  thirsted  for:  it  was  a  hateful,  smiling, 
soft-handed  thing   with  a  narrow,  selfish  heart. 

She  ran  down  from  the  loggia,  with  her  hands 
pressed  against  her  ears,  and  was  hurrying  across 
the  antechamber,  when  she  was  startled  by  unex- 
pectedly meeting  her  husband,  who  was  coming  to 
seek  her. 

His  step  was  elastic,  and  there  was  a  radiance  of 
satisfaction  about  him  not  quite  usual. 

"  "What !  the  noise  was  a  little  too  much  for  you  ?" 
lie  said ;  for  Eomola,  as  she  started  at  the  sight  of 
him,  had  pressed  her  hands  all  the  closer  against 
lier  ears.  He  took  her  gently  by  the  wrist,  and 
drew  her  arm  within  his,  leading  her  into  the 
saloon  surrounded  with  the  dancing  nymphs  and 
fauns,  and  then  went  on  speaking :  "  Florence  is 
gone  quite  mad  at  getting  its  Great  Council,  which 
is  to  put  an  end  to  all  the  evils  under  the  sun, 
especially  to  the  vice  of  merriment.  You  may  well 
look  stunned,  my  Romola,  and  you  are  cold.  You 
must  not  stay  so  late  under  that  windy  loggia  with- 
out wrappings.  I  was  coming  to  tell  you  that  I 
am  suddenly  called  to  Rome  about  some  learned 
business  for  Bernardo  Rucellai.  I  am  going  away 
immediately,  for  I  am  to  join  my  party  at  San 
(laggio  to-night,  that  we  may  start  early  in  the 
morning.      I  need  give  you  no  trouble ;  I  have  had 

VOL.  II.—  11 


i62  ROMOLA. 

my  packages  made  already.  It  will  not  be  very 
long  before  I  am  back  again.  " 

He  knew  he  had  nothing  to  expect  from  her  but 
quiet  endurance  of  what  he  said  and  did.  He  could 
not  even  venture  to  kiss  her  brow  this  evening,  but 
just  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  left  her. 
Tito  felt  that  Eomola  was  a  more  unforgiving 
woman  than  he  had  imagined;  her  love  was  not 
that  sweet  clinging  instinct,  stronger  than  aill  judg- 
ments, which,  he  began  to  see  now,  made  the  great 
charm  of  a  wife.  Still,  this  petrified  coldness  was 
better  than  a  passionate,  futile  opposition.  Her 
pride  and  capability  of  seeing  where  resistance  was 
useless  had  their  convenience. 

But  when  the  door  had  closed  on  Tito,  Eomola 
lost  the  look  of  cold  immobility  which  came  over 
her  like  an  inevitable  frost  whenever  he  approached 
her.  Inwardly  she  was  very  far  from  being  in  a 
state  of  quiet  endurance,  and  the  days  that  had 
passed  since  the  scene  which  had  divided  her  from 
Tito  had  been  days  of  active  planning  and  prepara- 
tion for  the  fulfilment  of  a  purpose. 

The  first  thing  she  did  now  was  to  call  old  Maso 
to  her. 

"  Maso, "  she  said  in  a  decided  tone,  "  we  take 
our  journey  to-morrow  morning.  We  shall  be  able 
now  to  overtake  that  first  convoy  of  cloth,  while 
they  are  waiting  at  San  Piero.  See  about  the  two 
mules  to-night,  and  be  ready  to  set  off  with  them 
at  break  of  day,  and  wait  for  me  at  Trespiano. " 

She  meant  to  take  Maso  with  her  as  far  as 
Bologna,  and  then  send  him  back  with  letters  to 
her  godfather  and  Tito,  telling  them  that  she  was 
gone  and  never  meant  to  return.  She  had  planned 
her  departure  so  that  its  secrecy  might  be  perfect, 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF.  163 

and  her  broken  love  and  life  be  hidden  away  un- 
scanned  by  vulgar  eyes.  Bernardo  del  Nero  had 
been  absent  at  his  villa,  willing  to  escape  from 
political  suspicions  to  his  favourite  occupation  of 
attending  to  his  land,  and  she  had  paid  him  the 
debt  witliout  a  personal  interview.  He  did  not 
even  know  that  the  library  was  sold,  and  was  left 
to  conjecture  that  some  sudden  piece  of  good  fortune 
had  enabled  Tito  to  raise  this  sum  of  money.  Maso 
had  been  taken  into  her  confidence  only  so  far  that 
he  knew  her  intended  journey  was  a  secret ;  and  to 
do  just  what  she  told  him  was  the  thing  he  cared 
most  for  in  his  withered  wintry  age. 

Romola  did  not  mean  to  go  to  bed  that  night. 
"When  she  had  fastened  the  door,  she  took  her  taper 
to  the  carved  and  painted  chest  which  contained 
her  wedding-clothes.  The  white  silk  and  gold  lay 
there,  the  long  white  veil  and  the  circlet  of  pearls. 
A  great  sob  rose  as  she  looked  at  them  :  they  seemed 
the  shroud  of  her  dead  happiness.  In  a  tiny  gold 
loop  of  the  circlet  a  sugar-plum  had  lodged,  — 
a  pink  hailstone  from  the  shower  of  sweets :  Tito 
had  detected  it  first,  and  had  said  that  it  should 
always  remain  there.  At  certain  moments  —  and 
this  was  one  of  them  —  Romola  was  carried,  by  a 
sudden  wave  of  memory,  back  again  into  tlie  time 
of  perfect  trust,  and  felt  again  the  presence  of  the 
husband  whose  love  made  the  world  as  fresh  and 
wonderful  to  her  as  to  a  little  cliild  that  sits  in 
stillness  among  the  sunny  flowers :  heard  the  gen- 
tle tones  and  saw  the  soft  eyes  witliout  any  lie  in 
them,  and  breathed  again  that  large  freedom  of 
the  soul  which  comes  from  the  faith  that  tlie  being 
who  is  nearest  to  us  is  greater  tlian  ourselves.  And 
in  those  brief  moments  tlie  tears  always  rose :  the 


1 64  ROMOLA. 

woman's  lovingness  felt  something  akin  to  what 
the  bereaved  mother  feels  when  the  tiny  fingers 
seem  to  lie  warm  on  her  bosom,  and  yet  are  marble 
to  her  lips  as  she  bends  over  the  silent  bed. 

But  there  was  something  else  lying  in  the  chest 
besides  the  wedding-clothes :  it  was  something 
dark  and  coarse,  rolled  up  in  a  close  bundle.  She 
turned  away  her  eyes  from  the  white  and  gold  to 
the  dark  bundle ;  and  as  her  hands  touched  the 
serge,  her  tears  began  to  be  checked.  That  coarse 
roughness  recalled  her  fully  to  the  present,  from 
which  love  and  delight  were  gone.  She  unfastened 
the  thick  white  cord,  and  spread  the  bundle  out  on 
the  table.  It  was  the  gray  serge  dress  of  a  sister 
belonging  to  the  third  order  of  St.  Francis,  living 
in  the  world,  but  especially  devoted  to  deeds  of 
piety,  —  a  personage  whom  the  Florentines  were 
accustomed  to  call  a  Pinzochera.  Eomola  was  go- 
ing to  put  on  this  dress  as  a  disguise ;  and  she  de- 
termined to  put  it  on  at  once,  so  that,  if  she  needed 
sleep  before  the  morning,  she  might  wake  up  in 
perfect  readiness  to  be  gone.  She  put  off  her  black 
garment ;  and  as  she  thrust  her  soft  white  arms  into 
the  harsh  sleeves  of  the  serge  mantle,  and  felt  the 
hard  girdle  of  rope  hurt  her  fingers  as  she  tied  it, 
she  courted  those  rude  sensations :  they  were  in 
keeping  with  her  new  scorn  of  that  thing  called 
pleasure  which  made  men  base,  —  that  dexterous 
contrivance  for  selfish  ease,  that  shrinking  from  en- 
durance and  strain,  when  others  were  bowing  be- 
neath burdens  too  heavy  for  them,  which  now  made 
one  image  with  her  husband.  Then  she  gathered 
her  long  hair  together,  drew  it  away  tight  from  her 
face,  bound  it  in  a  great  hard  knot  at  the  back  of 
her  head,  and  taking  a  square  piece  of  black  silk. 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF.  165 

tied  it  in  the  fashion  of  a  kerchief  close  across  her 
head  and  under  her  chin ;  and  over  that  she  drew 
the  cowl.  She  lifted  the  candle  to  the  mirror. 
Surely  her  disguise  would  be  complete  to  any  one 
who  had  not  lived  very  near  to  her.  To  herself  she 
looked  strangely  like  her  brother  Dino :  the  full 
oval  of  the  cheek  had  only  to  be  wasted ;  the  eyes, 
already  sad,  had  only  to  become  a  little  sunken. 
Was  she  getting  more  like  him  in  anything  else  ? 
Only  in  tliis,  that  she  understood  now  how  men 
could  be  prompted  to  rush  away  forever  from 
earthly  delights,  how  they  could  be  prompted  to 
dwell  on  images  of  sorrow  rather  than  of  beauty 
and  joy. 

But  she  did  not  linger  at  the  mirror:  she  set 
about  collecting  and  packing  all  the  relics  of  her 
father  and  mother  that  were  too  large  to  be  carried 
in  her  small  travelling-wallet.  They  were  all  to 
be  put  in  the  chest  along  with  her  wedding-clothes, 
and  the  chest  was  to  be  committed  to  her  godfather 
when  she  was  safely  gone.  First  she  laid  in  the 
portraits ;  then  one  by  one  every  little  thing  that 
had  a  sacred  memory  clinging  to  it  was  put  into 
her  wallet  or  into  the  chest.  She  paused.  There 
was  still  something  else  to  be  stript  away  from 
her,  belonging  to  that  past  on  which  she  was  going 
to  turn  her  back  forever.  She  put  her  thumb  and 
her  forefinger  to  her  betrothal  ring ;  but  they  rested 
there,  without  drawing  it  off.  Romola's  mind  had 
been  rushing  with  an  impetuous  current  towards 
this  act,  for  which  she  was  preparing :  the  act  of 
quitting  a  Imsband  who  had  disappointed  all  her 
trust,  the  act  of  breaking  an  outward  tie  that  no 
longer  represented  the  inward  bond  of  love.  But 
that  force  of  outward  symbols  by  which  our  active 


1 66  ROMOLA. 

life  is  knit  together  so  as  to  make  an  inexorable 
external  identity  for  us,  not  to  be  shaken  by  our 
wavering  consciousness,  gave  a  strange  effect  to  this 
simple  movement  towards  taking  off  her  ring,  —  a 
movement  which  was  but  a  small  sequence  of  her 
energetic  resolution.  It  brought  a  vague  but  arrest- 
ing sense  that  she  was  somehow  violently  rending 
her  life  in  two  :  a  presentiment  that  the  strong  im- 
pulse which  had  seemed  to  exclude  doubt  and  make 
her  path  clear  might  after  all  be  blindness,  and 
that  there  was  something  in  human  bonds  which 
must  prevent  them  from  being  broken  with  the 
breaking  of  illusions. 

If  that  beloved  Tito  who  had  placed  the  betrothal 
ring  on  her  finger  was  not  in  any  valid  sense  the 
same  Tito  whom  she  had  ceased  to  love,  why  should 
she  return  to  him  the  sign  of  their  union,  and  not 
rather  retain  it  as  a  memorial  ?  And  this  act, 
which  came  as  a  palpable  demonstration  of  her 
own  and  his  identity,  had  a  power  unexplained  to 
herself,  of  shaking  Romola.  It  is  the  way  with 
half  the  truth  amidst  which  we  live,  that  it  only 
haunts  us  and  makes  dull  pulsations  that  are  never 
born  into  sound.  But  there  was  a  passionate  voice 
speaking  within  her  that  presently  nullified  all 
such  muffled  murmurs. 

"  It  cannot  be !  I  cannot  be  subject  to  him.  He 
is  false.      I  shrink  from  him.      I  despise  him !  " 

She  snatched  the  ring  from  her  finger,  and  laid  it 
on  the  table  against  the  pen  with  which  she  meant 
to  write.  Again  she  felt  that  there  could  be  no 
law  for  her  but  the  law  of  her  affections.  That 
tenderness  and  keen  fellow-feeling  for  the  near  and 
the  loved  which  are  the  main  outgrowth  of  the 
affections,  had  made  the  religion   of  her  life :  they 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF.  167 

had  made  her  patient  in  spite  of  natural  impetuos- 
ity ;  they  would  have  sufticed  to  make  her  heroic. 
But  now  all  that  strength  was  gone,  or,  rather,  it 
was  converted  into  the  strength  of  repulsion.  She 
had  recoiled  from  Tito  in  proportion  to  the  energy 
of  that  young  belief  and  love  which  he  had  dis- 
appointed, of  that  lifelong  devotion  to  her  father 
against  which  he  had  committed  an  irredeemable 
offence.  And  it  seemed  as  if  all  motive  had  slipped 
away  from  her,  except  the  indignation  and  scorn 
that  made  her  tear  herself  asunder  from  him. 

She  was  not  acting  after  any  precedent,  or  obey- 
ing any  adopted  maxims.  The  grand  severity  of 
the  stoical  philosophy  in  which  her  father  had 
taken  care  to  instruct  her,  was  familiar  enough  to 
her  ears  and  lips,  and  its  lofty  spirit  had  raised 
certain  echoes  within  her;  but  she  had  never  used 
it,  never  needed  it  as  a  rule  of  life.  She  had  en- 
dured and  forborne  because  she  loved :  maxims 
which  told  her  to  feel  less,  and  not  to  cling  close 
lest  the  onward  course  of  great  Nature  should  jar 
her,  had  been  as  powerless  on  her  tenderness  as 
they  had  been  on  her  father's  yearning  for  just 
fame.  She  had  appropriated  no  theories :  she  had 
simply  felt  strong  in  the  strength  of  affection,  and 
life  without  that  energy  came  to  her  as  an  entirely 
new  problem. 

She  was  going  to  solve  the  problem  in  a  way 
that  seemed  to  her  very  simple.  Her  mind  had 
never  yet  bowed  to  any  obligation  apart  from  per- 
sonal love  and  reverence ;  she  had  no  keen  sense  of 
any  other  human  relations,  and  all  she  had  to  obey 
now  was  tlie  instinct  to  sever  herself  from  the  man 
she  loved  no  longer. 

Yet  the  unswerving  resolution  was  accompanied 


1 68  ROMOLA. 

with  continually  varying  phases  of  anguish.  And 
now  that  the  active  preparation  for  her  departure 
was  almost  finished,  she  lingered :  she  deferred 
writing  the  irrevocable  words  of  parting  from  all 
her  little  world.  The  emotions  of  the  past  weeks 
seemed  to  rush  in  again  with  cruel  hurry,  and  take 
possession  even  of  her  limbs.  She  was  going  to 
write,  and  her  hand  fell.  Bitter  tears  came  now 
at  the  delusion  which  had  blighted  her  young 
years :  tears  very  different  from  the  sob  of  remem- 
bered happiness  with  which  she  had  looked  at  the 
circlet  of  pearls  and  the  pink  hailstone.  And  now 
she  felt  a  tingling  shame  at  the  words  of  ignominy 
she  had  cast  at  Tito,  —  "  Have  you  robbed  some  one 
else  who  is  not  dead  ?  "  To  have  had  such  words 
wrung  from  her,  to  have  uttered  them  to  her 
husband,  seemed  a  degradation  of  her  whole  life. 
Hard  speech  between  those  who  have  loved  is 
hideous  in  the  memory,  like  the  sight  of  greatness 
and  beauty  sunk  into  vice  and  rags. 

That  heart-cutting  comparison  of  the  present 
with  the  past  urged  itself  upon  Eomola  till  it  even 
transformed  itself  into  wretched  sensations :  she 
seemed  benumbed  to  everything  but  inward  throb- 
bings,  and  began  to  feel  the  need  of  some  hard  con- 
tact. She  drew  her  hands  tight  along  the  harsh 
knotted  cord  that  hung  from  her  waist.  She  started 
to  her  feet  and  seized  the  rough  lid  of  the  chest : 
there  was  nothing  else  to  go  in  ?  No.  She  closed 
the  lid,  pressing  her  hand  upon  the  rough  carving, 
and  locked  it. 

Then  she  remembered  that  she  had  still  to  com- 
plete her  equipment  as  a  Pinzochera.  The  large 
leather  purse  or  scarsella,  with  small  coin  in  it, 
had  to  be  hung  on  the  cord  at  her  waist  (her  florins 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF.  169 

and  small  jewels,  presents  from  her  godfather  and 
cousin  Brigida,  were  safely  fastened  within  her 
serge  mantle),  and  on  the  other  side  must  hang 
the  rosary. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Eomola,  as  she  hung  that 
rosary  hy  her  side,  that  something  else  besides  the 
mere  garb  would  perhaps  be  necessary  to  enable 
her  to  pass  as  a  Pinzochera,  and  that  her  whole  air 
and  expression  were  as  little  as  possible  like  those 
of  a  sister  whose  eyelids  were  used  to  be  bent,  and 
whose  lips  were  used  to  move  in  silent  iteration. 
Her  inexperience  prevented  her  from  picturing  dis- 
tant details,  and  it  helped  her  proud  courage  in 
shutting  out  any  foreboding  of  danger  and  insult. 
She  did  not  know  that  any  Florentine  woman  had 
ever  done  exactly  what  she  was  going  to  do :  un- 
happy wives  often  took  refuge  with  their  friends 
or  in  the  cloister,  she  knew,  but  both  those  courses 
were  impossible  to  her ;  she  had  invented  a  lot  for 
herself,  —  to  go  to  the  most  learned  woman  in  the 
world,  Cassandra  Fedele,  at  Venice,  and  ask  her 
how  an  instructed  woman  could  support  herself  in 
a  lonely  life  there. 

She  was  not  daunted  by  the  practical  difficulties 
in  the  way  or  the  dark  uncertainty  at  the  end. 
Her  life  could  never  be  happy  any  more,  but  it 
must  not,  could  not,  be  ignoble.  And  by  a  pathe- 
tic mixture  of  childish  romance  with  her  woman's 
trials,  the  phil()s<)i)hy  which  had  nothing  to  do 
witli  this  groat  decisive  deed  of  hers  had  its  i)lace 
in  her  imagination  of  the  future :  so  far  as  she 
conceived  her  solitary  loveless  life  at  all,  she  saw 
it  animated  by  a  proud  stoical  heroism,  and  by  an 
indistinct  but  strong  purpose  of  labour,  that  she 
might  be  wise  enough  to  write  something  which 


170  ROMOLA. 

would  rescue  her  father's  name  from  oblivion. 
After  all,  she  was  only  a  young  girl,  —  this  poor 
Eomola,  who  had  found  herself  at  the  end  of  her 

joys- 
There  were  other  things  yet  to  be  done.     There 

was  a  small  key  in  a  casket  on  the  table, —  but  now 

Romola  perceived  that  her  taper  was  dying  out, 

and  she  had  forgotten  to  provide  herself  with  any 

other  light.      In  a  few  moments  the  room  was  in 

total   darkness.     Feeling   her  way  to  the  nearest 

chair,   she  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  morning. 

Her  purpose  in  seeking  the  key  had  called  up 

certain  memories  which  had  come  back  upon  her 

during  the  past  week  with  the  new  vividness  that 

remembered  words  always   have  for  us  when  we 

have  learned  to  give  them  a  new  meaning.      Since 

the  shock  of  the  revelation  which  had  seemed  to 

divide  her  forever  from  Tito,   that  last  interview 

with  Dino  had  never  been  for  many  hours  together 

out  of   her   mind.     And  it  solicited    her  all  the 

more  because  while  its  remembered  images  pressed 

upon    her   almost   with    the    imperious    force    of 

sensations,  they  raised  struggling  thoughts  which 

resisted  their  influence.     She   could   not   prevent 

herself  from  hearing  inwardly  the  dying  prophetic 

voice  saying  again  and  again :   "  The  man  whose 

face  was  a  blank  loosed  thy  hand  and  departed ; 

and  as  he  went,  I  could  see  his  face,  and  it  was 

the  face  of   the   great   Tempter.   .   .   .   And    thou, 

Eomola,  didst  wring  thy  hands  and  seek  for  water, 

and  there  was  none  .   .   .   and  the  plain  was  bare 

and  stony  again,  and  thou  wast  alone  in  the  midst 

of  it.      And  then  it  seemed  that  the  night  fell,  and 

1  saw  no  more. "     She  could  not  prevent  herself 

from  dwelling  with  a  sort  of  agonized  fascination 


ARIADNE   DISCROWNS  HERSELF.  171 

on  the  wasted  face,  on  the  straining  gaze  at  the 
crucifix,  on  the  awe  which  had  compelled  her  to 
kneel,  on  the  last  broken  words,  and  then  the 
unbroken  silence,  —  on  all  the  details  of  the  death- 
scene,  which  had  seemed  like  a  sudden  opening  into 
a  world  apart  from  that  of  her  life-long  knowledge. 

But  her  mind  was  roused  to  resistance  of  impres- 
sions that,  from  being  obvious  phantoms,  seemed 
to  be  getting  solid  in  the  daylight.  As  a  strong 
body  struggles  against  fumes  with  the  more 
violence  when  they  begin  to  be  stifling,  a  strong 
soul  struggles  against  phantasies  with  all  the  more 
alarmed  energy  when  they  threaten  to  govern  in 
the  place  of  thought. 

What  had  the  words  of  that  vision  to  do  with 
her  real  sorrows  ?  That  fitting  of  certain  words 
was  a  mere  chance ;  the  rest  was  all  vague,  —  nay, 
those  words  themselves  were  vague ;  they  were 
determined  by  nothing  but  her  brother's  memories 
and  beliefs.  He  believed  there  was  something 
fatal  in  pagan  learning ;  he  believed  that  celibacy 
was  more  holy  than  marriage  ;  he  remembered  their 
home,  and  all  the  objects  in  the  library ;  and  of 
these  threads  the  vision  was  woven.  What  reason- 
able warrant  could  she  have  had  for  believing  in 
such  a  vision  and  acting  on  it  ?  None.  True  as 
the  voice  of  foreboding  had  proved,  Eomola  saw 
with  unshaken  conviction  that  to  have  renounced 
Tito  in  obedience  to  a  warning  like  that,  would 
have  been  meagre-hearted  folly.  Her  trust  had 
been  delusive,  but  she  would  have  chosen  over 
again  to  have  acted  on  it  rather  than  be  a  creature 
led  by  phantoms  and  disjointed  whispers  in  a  world 
where  there  was  the  large  music  of  reasonable 
speech,  and  the  warm  grasp  of  living  hands. 


172  ROMOLA. 

But  the  persistent  presence  of  these  memories, 
linking  themselves  in  her  imagination  with  her 
actual  lot,  gave  her  a  glimpse  of  understanding  into 
the  lives  which  had  before  lain  utterly  aloof  from 
her  sympathy,  —  the  lives  of  the  men  and  women 
who  were  led  by  such  inward  images  and  voices. 

"  If  they  were  only  a  little  stronger  in  me, "  she 
said  to  herself,  "  I  should  lose  the  sense  of  what 
that  vision  really  was,  and  take  it  for  a  prophetic 
light.  I  might  in  time  get  to  be  a  seer  of  visions 
myself,  like  the  Suora  Maddalena,  and  Camilla 
Eucellai,  and  the  rest.  " 

Eomola  shuddered  at  the  possibility.  All  the 
instruction,  all  the  main  influences  of  her  life  had 
gone  to  fortify  her  scorn  of  that  sickly  superstition 
which  led  men  and  women,  with  eyes  too  weak  for 
the  daylight,  to  sit  in  dark  swamps  and  try  to  read 
human  destiny  by  the  chance  flame  of  wandering 
vapours. 

And  yet  she  was  conscious  of  something  deeper 
than  that  coincidence  of  words  which  made  the 
parting  contact  with  her  dying  brother  live  anew 
in  her  mind,  and  gave  a  new  sisterhood  to  the 
wasted  face.  If  there  were  much  more  of  such  ex- 
perience as  his  in  the  world,  she  would  like  to  un- 
derstand it, —  would  even  like  to  learn  the  thoughts 
of  men  who  sank  in  ecstasy  before  the  pictured 
agonies  of  martyrdom.  There  seemed  to  be  some- 
thing more  than  madness  in  that  supreme  fellow- 
ship with  suffering.  The  springs  were  all  dried  up 
around  her ;  she  wondered  what  other  waters  there 
were  at  which  men  drank  and  found  strength  in 
the  desert.  And  those  moments  in  the  Duomo 
when  she  had  sobbed  with  a  mysterious  mingling 
of  rapture  and  pain,    while  Fra  Girolamo  offered 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF.  173 

himself  a  willing  sacrifice  for  the  people,  came 
back  to  her  as  if  they  had  been  a  transient  taste  of 
some  such  far-off  fountain.  But  again  she  shrank 
from  impressions  that  were  alluring  her  within  the 
sphere  of  visions  and  narrow  fears  which  compelled 
men  to  outrage  natural  affections  as  Dino  had 
done. 

This  was  the  tangled  web  that  Romola  had  in 
her  mind  as  she  sat  weary  in  the  darkness.  No 
radiant  angel  came  across  the  gloom  with  a  clear 
message  for  her.  In  those  times,  as  now,  there 
were  human  beings  who  never  saw  angels  or  heard 
perfectly  clear  messages.  Such  truth  as  came  to 
them  was  brought  confusedly  in  the  voices  and 
deeds  of  men  not  at  all  like  the  seraphs  of  unfail- 
ing wing  and  piercing  vision,  —  men  who  believed 
falsities  as  well  as  truths,  and  did  the  wronff  as 
well  as  the  right.  The  helping  hands  stretched 
out  to  them  were  the  hands  of  men  who  stumbled 
and  often  saw  dimly,  so  that  these  beings  unvisited 
by  angels  had  no  other  choice  than  to  grasp  that 
stumbling  guidance  along  the  path  of  reliance  and 
action  which  is  the  path  of  life,  or  else  to  pause  in 
loneliness  and  disbelief,  which  is  no  path,  but  the 
arrest  of  inaction  and  death. 

And  so  Romola,  seeing  no  ray  across  the  dark- 
ness, and  heavy  with  conflict  that  changed  nothing, 
sank  at  last  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER   XYII 

THE  TABERNACLE  UNLOCKED. 

EoMOLA  was  waked  by  a  tap  at  the  door.  The  cold 
light  of  early  morning  was  in  the  room,  and  Maso 
was  come  for  the  travelling-wallet.  The  old  man 
could  not  help  starting  when  she  opened  the  door, 
and  showed  him,  instead  of  the  graceful  outline  he 
had  been  used  to,  crowned  with  the  brightness  of 
her  hair,  the  thick  folds  of  the  gray  mantle  and 
the  pale  face  shadowed  by  the  dark  cowl. 

"  It  is  well,  Maso, "  said  Eomola,  trying  to  speak 
in  the  calmest  voice,  and  make  the  old  man  easy. 
"  Here  is  the  wallet  quite  ready.  You  will  go  on 
quietly,  and  I  shall  not  be  far  behind  you.  "When 
you  get  out  of  the  gates  you  may  go  more  slowly, 
for  I  shall  perhaps  join  you  before  you  get  to 
Trespiano.  " 

She  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  then  put 
her  hand  on  the  key  which  she  had  taken  from  the 
casket  the  last  thing  in  the  night.  It  was  the  ori- 
ginal key  of  the  little  painted  tabernacle :  Tito  had 
forgotten  to  drown  it  in  the  Arno,  and  it  had 
lodged,  as  such  small  things  will,  in  the  corner  of 
the  embroidered  scarsella  which  he  wore  with  the 
purple  tunic.  One  day,  long  after  their  marriage, 
Romola  had  found  it  there,  and  had  put  it  by 
without  using  it,  but  with  a  sense  of  satisfaction 


THE  TABERNACLE  UNLOCKED.      175 

that  the  key  was  within  reach.  The  cabinet  on 
which  the  tabernacle  stood  had  been  moved  to  the 
side  of  the  room,  close  to  one  of  the  windows, 
where  the  pale  morning  light  fell  upon  it  so  as  to 
make  the  painted  forms  discernible  enough  to 
Eomola,  who  knew  them  well,  —  the  triumphant 
Bacchus,  with  his  clusters  and  his  vine-clad  spear, 
clasping  the  crowned  Ariadne ;  the  Loves  shower- 
ing roses,  the  ^vreathed  vessel,  the  cunning-eyed 
dolphins,  and  the  rippled  sea :  all  encircled  by  a 
flowery  border,  like  a  bower  of  paradise.  Eomola 
looked  at  the  familiar  images  with  new  bitterness 
and  repulsion :  they  seemed  a  more  pitiable  mock- 
ery than  ever  on  this  chill  morning,  when  she  had 
waked  up  to  wander  in  loneliness.  They  had  been 
no  tomb  of  sorrow,  but  a  lying  screen.  Foolish 
Ariadne !  with  her  gaze  of  love,  as  if  that  bright 
face,  with  its  hyaciuthine  curls  like  tendrils  among 
the  vines,  held  the  deep  secret  of  her  life ! 

"  Ariadne  is  wonderfully  transformed, "  thought 
Eomola.  "  She  would  look  strange  among  the  vines 
and  the  roses  now.  " 

She  took  up  the  mirror,  and  looked  at  herself 
once  more.  But  the  sight  was  so  startling  in  this 
morning  light  that  she  laid  it  down  again,  with  a 
sense  of  shrinking  almost  as  strong  as  that  with 
which  she  had  turned  from  the  joyous  Ariadne. 
The  recognition  of  her  own  face,  with  the  cowl 
about  it,  brought  back  the  dread  lest  she  should  be 
drawn  at  last  into  fellowship  with  some  wretched 
superstition,  —  into  the  company  of  the  howling 
fanatics  and  weeping  nuns  who  had  been  her  con- 
tempt from  cliildhood  till  now.  She  thrust  the 
key  into  the  tabernacle  hurriedly :  hurriedlv  she 
opened  it,  and  took  out  the  crucifix,  without  look- 


176  EOMOLA. 

ing  at  it ;  then,  with  trembling  fingers,  she  passed 
a  cord  through  the  little  ring,  hung  the  crucifix 
round  her  neck,  and  hid  it  in  the  bosom  of  her 
mantle.    "For  Dino'ssake, "  she  said  to  herself. 

Still  there  were  the  letters  to  be  written  which 
Maso  was  to  carry  back  from  Bologna.  They  were 
very  brief.      The  first  said,  — 

"Tito,  my  love  for  you  is  dead;  and  therefore,  so 
far  as  I  was  yours,  I  too  am  dead.  Do  not  try  to  put 
in  force  any  laws  for  the  sake  of  fetching  me  back: 
that  would  bring  you  no  happiness.  The  Romola  you 
married  can  never  return.  I  need  explain  nothing  to 
you  after  the  words  I  uttered  to  you  the  last  time  we 
spoke  long  together.  If  you  supposed  them  to  be 
words  of  transient  anger,  you  will  know  now  that  they 
were  the  sign  of  an  irreversible  change. 

"I  think  you  will  fulfil  my  wish  that  my  bridal 
chest  should  be  sent  to  my  godfather,  who  gave  it  me. 
It  contains  my  wedding-clothes  and  the  portraits  and 
other  relics  of  my  father  and  mother." 

She  folded  the  ring  inside  this  letter,  and  wrote 
Tito's  name  outside.  The  next  letter  was  to  Ber- 
nardo del  Nero :  — 

Dearest  Godfather,  —  If  I  could  have  been  any 
good  to  your  life  by  staying,  I  would  not  have  gone 
away  to  a  distance.  But  now  I  am  gone.  Do  not 
ask  the  reason;  and  if  you  love  my  father,  try  to  pre- 
vent any  one  from  seeking  me.  I  could  not  bear  my 
life  at  Florence.  I  cannot  bear  to  tell  any  one  wh3% 
Help  to  cover  my  lot  in  silence.  I  have  asked  that 
my  bridal  chest  should  be  sent  to  you :  when  you  open 
it,  you  will  know  the  reason.  Please  to  give  all  the 
things  that  were  my  mother's  to  my  cousin  Brigida, 
and  ask  her  to  forgive  me  for  not  saying  any  words  of 
parting  to  her. 


-  -m 


■»i»  rrf}  -,.■"■.■.-■).-.    *•■     ■ 


OF 


THE  TABERNACLE  UNLOCKED.      177 

Farewell,  my  second  father.  The  best  thing  I  have 
in  life  is  still  to  remember  your  goodness  and  be  grate- 
ful to  you. 

KOMOLA. 


Romola  put  the  letters,  along  with  the  crucifix, 
within  the  bosom  of  her  mantle,  and  then  felt  that 
everything  was  done.  She  was  ready  now  to 
depart. 

No  one  was  stirring  in  the  house,  and  she  went 
almost  as  quietly  as  a  gray  phantom  down  the 
stairs  and  into  the  silent  street.  Her  heart  was 
palpitating  violently,  yet  she  enjoyed  the  sense  of 
her  firm  tread  on  the  broad  flags,  —  of  the  swift 
movement,  which  was  like  a  chained-up  resolution 
set  free  at  last.  The  anxiety  to  carry  out  her  act, 
and  the  dread  of  any  obstacle,  averted  sorrow ;  and 
as  she  reached  the  Ponte  Rubaconte,  she  felt  less 
that  Santa  Croce  was  in  her  sight  than  that  the 
yellow  streak  of  morning  which  parted  the  gray 
was  getting  broader  and  broader,  and  that,  unless 
she  hastened  her  steps,  she  should  have  to  encoun- 
ter faces. 

Her  simplest  road  was  to  go  right  on  to  the 
Borgo  Pinti,  and  then  along  by  the  walls  to  the 
Porta  San  Gallo,  from  which  she  must  leave 
the  city ;  and  this  road  carried  her  by  the  Piazza 
di  Santa  Croce.  But  she  walked  as  steadily  and 
rapidly  as  ever  through  the  piazza,  not  trusting 
herself  to  look  towards  the  church.  The  thought 
that  any  eyes  might  be  turned  on  her  with  a  look 
of  curiosity  and  recognition,  and  that  indifferent 
minds  niiglit  be  set  speculating  on  her  private  sor- 
rows, made  Romola  shrink  physically  as  from  the 
imagination  of  torture.     She  felt  degraded  even  by 

VOL.  II. — 12 


178  ROMOLA. 

that  act  of  her  husband  from  which  she  was  help- 
lessly suffering.  But  there  was  no  sign  that  any 
eyes  looked  forth  from  windows  to  notice  this  tall 
gray  sister,  with  the  firm  step,  and  proud  attitude  of 
the  cowled  head.  Her  road  lay  aloof  from  the  stir 
of  early  traffic  ;  and  when  she  reached  the  Porta  San 
Gallo,  it  was  easy  to  pass  while  a  dispute  was  go- 
ing forward  about  the  toll  for  panniers  of  eggs  and 
market  produce  which  were  just  entering. 

Out!  Once  past  the  houses  of  the  Borgo,  she 
would  be  beyond  the  last  fringe  of  Florence,  the 
sky  would  be  broad  above  her,  and  she  would  have 
entered  on  her  new  life,  —  a  life  of  loneliness  and 
endurance,  but  of  freedom.  She  had  been  strong 
enough  to  snap  asunder  the  bonds  she  had  accepted 
in  blind  faith :  whatever  befell  her,  she  would  no 
more  feel  the  breath  of  soft  hated  lips  warm  upon 
her  cheek,  no  longer  feel  the  breath  of  an  odious 
mind  stifling  her  own.  The  bare  wintry  morning, 
the  chill  air,  were  welcome  in  their  severity :  the 
leafless  trees,  the  sombre  hills,  were  not  haunted 
by  the  gods  of  beauty  and  joy,  whose  worship  she 
had  forsaken  forever. 

But  presently  the  light  burst  forth  with  sudden 
strength,  and  shadows  were  thrown  across  the 
road.  It  seemed  that  the  sun  was  going  to  chase 
away  the  grayness.  The  light  is  perhaps  never 
felt  more  strongly  as  a  divine  presence  stirring  all 
those  inarticulate  sensibilities  which  are  our  deep- 
est life,  than  in  these  moments  when  it  instanta- 
neously awakens  the  shadows.  A  certain  awe  which 
inevitably  accompanied  this  most  momentous  act 
of  her  life  became  a  more  conscious  element  in 
Eomola's  feeling  as  she  found  herself  in  the  sudden 
presence  of  the  impalpable  golden  glory  and  the 


THE  TABERNACLE  UNLOCKED.      179 

long  shadow  of  herself  that  was  not  to  be  escaped. 
Hitherto  she  had  met  no  one  but  an  occasional  con- 
tadino  with  mules,  and  the  many  turnings  of  the 
road  on  the  level  prevented  her  from  seeing  that 
Maso  was  not  very  far  ahead  of  her.  But  when 
she  had  passed  Pietra  and  was  on  rising  ground, 
she  lifted  up  the  hanging  roof  of  her  cowl  and 
looked  eagerly  before  her. 

The  cowl  was  dropped  again  immediately.  She 
had  seen,  not  Maso,  but  —  two  monks,  who  were 
approaching  within  a  few  yards  of  her.  The  edge 
of  her  cowl  making  a  pent-house  on  her  brow  had 
shut  out  the  objects  above  the  level  of  her  eyes,  and 
for  the  last  few  moments  she  had  been  looking  at 
nothing  but  the  brightness  on  the  path  and  at  her 
own  shadow  tall  and  shrouded  like  a  dread  spectre. 

She  wished  now  that  she  had  not  looked  up. 
Her  disguise  made  her  especially  dislike  to  en- 
counter monks  :  they  might  expect  some  pious  pass- 
words of  which  she  knew  nothing,  and  she  walked 
along  with  a  careful  appearance  of  unconsciousness 
till  she  had  seen  the  skirts  of  the  black  mantles 
pass  by  her.  The  encounter  had  made  her  heart 
beat  disagreeably,  for  Eomola  had  an  uneasiness 
in  her  religious  disguise,  a  shame  at  this  studied 
concealment,  which  was  made  more  distinct  by  a 
special  effort  to  appear  unconscious  under  actual 
glances. 

But  the  black  skirts  would  be  gone  the  faster 
because  they  were  going  down -hill ;  and  seeing  a 
great  flat  stone  against  a  cypress  that  rose  from  a 
projecting  green  bank,  she  yielded  to  the  desire 
which  the  slight  shock  had  given  her,  to  sit  down 
and  rest. 

She  turned  her  back  on  Florence,  not  meaning 


i8o  ROMOLA. 

to  look  at  it  till  the  monks  were  quite  out  of  sight ; 
and  raising  the  edge  of  her  cowl  again  when  she 
had  seated  herself,  she  discerned  Maso  and  the 
mules  at  a  distance  where  it  was  not  hopeless  for 
her  to  overtake  them,  as  the  old  man  would  prob- 
ably linger  in  expectation  of  her. 

Meanwhile  she  might  pause  a  little.     She  was 
free  and  alone. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE   BLACK   MARKS   BECOME   MAGICAL. 

That  journey  of  Tito's  to  Eome,  which  had  re- 
moved many  difficulties  from  Eomola  s  departure, 
had  been  resolved  on  quite  suddenly,  at  a  supper, 
only  the  evening  before. 

Tito  had  set  out  towards  that  supper  with  agree- 
able expectations.  The  meats  were  likely  to  be 
delicate,  the  wines  choice,  the  company  distin- 
guished ;  for  the  place  of  entertainment  was  the 
Selva  or  Orto  de'  Eucellai,  or,  as  we  should  say, 
the  Rucellai  Gardens ;  and  the  host,  Bernardo 
Eucellai,  was  quite  a  typical  Florentine  grandee. 
Even  his  family  name  has  a  significance  which  is 
prettily  symbolic  :  properly  understood,  it  may  bring 
before  us  a  little  lichen,  popularly  named  orcella  or 
roccella,  which  grows  on  the  rocks  of  Greek  isles 
and  in  the  Canaries ,  and  having  drunk  a  great  deal 
of  light  into  its  little  stems  and  button-heads,  will, 
under  certain  circumstances,  give  it  out  again  as  a 
reddish  purple  dye,  very  grateful  to  the  eyes  of 
men.  By  bringing  the  excellent  secret  of  this  dye, 
called  oricello,  from  the  Levant  to  Florence,  a  cer- 
tain merchant,  who  lived  nearly  a  hundred  years 
before  our  Bernardo's  time,  won  for  himself  and 
his  descendants  much  wealth,  and  the  pleasantly 
suggestive  surname  of  Oricellari  or  Eoccellari, 
which  on  Tuscan  tongues  speedily  became  Eucellai. 


i82  EOMOLA. 

And  our  Bernardo,  who  stands  out  more  promi- 
nently than  the  rest  on  this  purple  background, 
had  added  all  sorts  of  distinction  to  the  family 
name:  he  had  married  the  sister  of  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici,  and  had  had  the  most  splendid  wedding 
in  the  memory  of  Florentine  upholstery ;  and  for 
these  and  other  virtues  he  had  been  sent  on  embas- 
sies to  France  and  Venice,  and  had  been  chosen 
Gonfaloniere ;  he  had  not  only  built  himself  a  fine 
palace,  but  had  finished  putting  the  black  and 
white  marble  facade  to  the  church  of  Santa  Maria 
Novella ;  he  had  planted  a  garden  with  rare  trees, 
and  had  made  it  classic  groand  by  receiving  within 
it  the  meetings  of  the  Platonic  Academy,  orphaned 
by  the  death  of  Lorenzo ;  he  had  written  an  excel- 
lent, learned  book,  of  a  new  topographical  sort, 
about  ancient  Rome ;  he  had  collected  antiquities ; 
he  had  a  pure  Latinity.  The  simplest  account  of 
him,  one  sees,  reads  like  a  laudatory  epitaph  at  the 
end  of  which  the  Greek  and  Ausonian  Muses  might 
be  confidently  requested  to  tear  their  hair,  and 
Nature  to  desist  from  any  second  attempt  to  com- 
bine so  many  virtues  with  one  set  of  viscera. 

His  invitation  had  been  conveyed  to  Tito  through 
Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  with  an  emphasis  which  would 
have  suggested  that  the  object  of  the  gathering  was 
political,  even  if  the  public  questions  of  the  time 
had  been  less  absorbing.  As  it  was,  Tito  felt  sure 
that  some  party  purposes  were  to  be  furthered  by 
the  excellent  flavours  of  stewed  fish  and  old  Greek 
wine ;  for  Bernardo  Rucellai  was  not  simply  an  in- 
fluential personage,  he  was  one  of  the  elect  Twenty 
who  for  three  weeks  had  held  the  reins  of  Florence. 
This  assurance  put  Tito  in  the  best  spirits  as  he 
made  his  way  to  the  Via  della  Scala,  where  the 


OFTTC 


THE  BLACK  MARKS  BECOME  MAGICAL.     183 

classic  garden  was  to  be  found :  without  it,  he 
might  have  had  some  uneasy  speculation  as  to 
whether  the  high  company  he  would  have  the 
honour  of  meeting  was  likely  to  be  dull  as  well  as 
distinguished  ;  for  he  had  had  experience  of  various 
dull  suppers  even  in  the  Rucellai  gardens,  and 
especially  of  the  dull  philosophic  sort,  wherein  he 
had  not  only  been  called  upon  to  accept  an  entire 
scheme  of  the  universe  (which  would  have  been 
easy  to  him),  but  to  listen  to  an  exposition  of 
the  same,  from  the  origin  of  things  to  their  com- 
plete ripeness  in  the  tractate  of  the  philosopher 
then  speaking. 

It  was  a  dark  evening,  and  it  was  only  when 
Tito  crossed  the  occasional  light  of  a  lamp  sus- 
pended before  an  image  of  the  Virgin,  that  the  out- 
line of  his  figure  was  discernible  enough  for 
recognition.  At  such  moments  any  one  caring  to 
watch  his  passage  from  one  of  these  lights  to  an- 
other might  have  observed  that  the  tall  and  grace- 
ful personage  with  the  mantle  folded  round  him 
was  followed  constantly  by  a  very  different  form, 
thick-set  and  elderly,  in  a  serge  tunic  and  felt  hat. 
The  conjunction  might  have  been  taken  for  mere 
chance,  since  there  were  many  passengers  along  the 
streets  at  this  hour.  But  when  Tito  stopped  at  the 
gate  of  the  Rucellai  gardens,  the  figure  behind 
stopped  too.  The  sportello,  or  smaller  door  of  the 
gate,  was  already  being  held  open  by  the  servant, 
who  in  the  distraction  of  attending  to  some  ques- 
tion had  not  yet  closed  it  since  the  last  arrival, 
and  Tito  turned  in  rapidly,  giving  his  name  to  the 
servant,  and  passing  on  between  the  evergreen 
bushes  that  shone  like  metal  in  the  torchlight. 
The  follower  turned  in  too. 


1 84  ROMOLA. 

"  Your  name  ?  "  said  the  servant. 

"  Baldassarre  Calvo, "  was  the  immediate  answer. 

"  You  are  not  a  guest ;  the  guests  have  all 
passed. " 

"  I  belong  to  Tito  Melema,  who  has  just  gone  in. 
I  am  to  wait  in  the  gardens. " 

The  servant  hesitated.  "  I  had  orders  to  admit 
only  guests.      Are  you  a  servant  of  Messer  Tito  ?  " 

"  No,  friend,  I  am  not  a  servant ;  I  am  a  scholar. " 

There  are  men  to  whom  you  need  only  say,  "  I 
am  a  buffalo, "  in  a  certain  tone  of  quiet  confidence, 
and  they  will  let  you  pass.  The  porter  gave  way 
at  once,  Baldassarre  entered,  and  heard  the  door 
closed  and  chained  behind  him,  as  he  too  disap- 
peared among  the  shining  bushes. 

Those  ready  and  firm  answers  argued  a  great 
change  in  Baldassarre  since  the  last  meeting  face 
to  face  with  Tito,  when  the  dagger  broke  in  two. 
The  change  had  declared  itself  in  a  startling 
way. 

At  the  moment  when  the  shadow  of  Tito  passed 
in  front  of  the  hovel  as  he  departed  homeward, 
Baldassarre  was  sitting  in  that  state  of  after- 
tremor  known  to  every  one  who  is  liable  to  great 
outbursts  of  passion,  —  a  state  in  which  physical 
powerlessness  is  sometimes  accompanied  by  an  ex- 
ceptional lucidity  of  thought,  as  if  that  disen- 
gagement of  excited  passion  had  carried  away  a 
fire-mist  and  left  clearness  behind  it.  He  felt 
unable  to  rise  and  walk  away  just  yet ;  his  limbs 
seemed  benumbed ;  he  was  cold,  and  his  hands 
shook.  But  in  that  bodily  helplessness  he  sat 
surrounded,  not  by  the  habitual  dimness  and  van- 
ishing shadows,  but  by  the  clear  images  of  the 
past;  he  was  living  again  in  an  unbroken  course 


THE  BLACK  MARKS  BECOME  MAGICAL.     1S5 

through  that  life  which  seemed  a  long  preparation 
for  the  taste  of  bitterness. 

For  some  minutes  he  was  too  thoroughly  absorbed 
by  the  images  to  reflect  on  the  fact  that  he  saw 
them,  and  note  the  fact  as  a  change.  But  when 
that  sudden  clearness  had  travelled  through  the  dis- 
tance, and  came  at  last  to  rest  on  the  scene  just 
gone  by,  he  felt  fully  where  he  was  :  he  remembered 
Monna  Lisa  and  Tessa.  Ah !  he  then  was  the  mys- 
terious husband ;  he  who  had  another  wife  in  the 
Via  de'  Bardi.  It  was  time  to  pick  up  the  broken 
dagger  and  go,  — go  and  leave  no  trace  of  himself; 
for  to  hide  his  feebleness  seemed  the  thing  most 
like  power  that  was  left  to  him.  He  leaned  tu 
take  up  the  fragments  of  the  dagger ;  then  he  turned 
towards  the  book  which  lay  open  at  his  side.  It 
was  a  fine  large  manuscript,  an  odd  volume  of 
Pausanias.  The  moonlight  was  upon  it,  and  he 
could  see  the  large  letters  at  the  head  of  the  page : 

ME22HNIKA.     KB'. 

In  old  days  he  had  known  Pausanias  familiarly; 
yet  an  hour  or  two  ago  he  had  been  looking  hope- 
lessly at  that  page,  and  it  had  suggested  no  more 
meaning  to  him  than  if  the  letters  had  been  black 
weather-marks  on  a  wall ;  but  at  this  moment  they 
were  once  more  the  magic  signs  that  conjure  up  a 
world.  That  moonbeam  falling  on  the  letters  had 
raised  Messenia  before  him,  and  its  struggle  against 
the  Spartan  oppression. 

He  snatched  up  the  book,  but  the  light  was  too 
pale  for  him  to  read  further  by.  No  matter:  he 
knew  that  chapter ;  he  read  inwardly.  He  saw  the 
stoning  of  the  traitor  Aristocrates, — stoned  by  a 
whole  people,  who  cast  him  out  from  their  borders 


1 86  ROMOLA. 

to  lie  imburied,  and  set  up  a  pillar  with  verses  upon 
it  telling  how  Time  had  brought  home  justice  to  the 
unjust.  The  words  arose  within  him,  and  stirred 
innumerable  vibrations  of  memory.  He  forgot  that 
he  was  old :  he  could  almost  have  shouted.  The 
light  was  come  again,  mother  of  knowledge  and  joy  ! 
In  that  exultation  his  limbs  recovered  their  strength  : 
he  started  up  with  his  broken  dagger  and  book,  and 
went  out  under  the  broad  moonlight. 

It  was  a  nipping  frosty  air,  but  Baldassarre  could 
feel  no  chill,  —  he  only  felt  the  glow  of  conscious 
power.  He  walked  about  and  paused  on  all  the 
open  spots  of  that  high  ground,  and  looked  down 
on  the  domed  and  towered  city  sleeping  darkly 
under  its  sleeping  guardians  the  mountains,  on 
the  pale  gleam  of  the  river,  on  the  valley  vanish- 
ing towards  the  peaks  of  snow ;  and  felt  himself 
master  of  them  all. 

That  sense  of  mental  empire  which  belongs  to 
us  all  in  moments  of  exceptional  clearness  was  in- 
tensified for  him  by  the  long  days  and  nights  in 
which  memory  had  been  little  more  than  the  con- 
sciousness of  something  gone.  That  city,  which 
had  been  a  weary  labyrinth,  was  material  that  he 
could  subdue  to  his  purposes  now  :  his  mind  glanced 
through  its  affairs  with  flashing  conjecture ;  he  was 
once  more  a  man  who  knew  cities,  whose  sense  of 
vision  was  instructed  with  large  experience,  and 
who  felt  the  keen  delight  of  holding  all  things  in 
the  grasp  of  language.  Names !  Images  !  —  his 
mind  rushed  through  its  wealth  without  pausing, 
like  one  who  enters  on  a  great  inheritance. 

But  amidst  all  that  rushing  eagerness  there  was 
one  End  presiding  in  Baldassarre 's  consciousness, 
—  a  dark  deity  in  the  inmost  cell,  who  only  seemed 


THE   BLACK   MARKS  BECOME  MAGICAL.     187 

forgotten  while  his  hecatomb  was  being  prepared. 
And  when  the  first  triumph  in  the  certainty  of  re- 
covered power  had  had  its  way,  his  thoughts  cen- 
tred themselves  on  Tito.  That  fair  slippery  viper 
could  not  escape  him  now ;  thanks  to  struggling 
justice,  the  heart  that  never  quivered  with  tender- 
ness for  another  had  its  sensitive  selfish  fibres  that 
could  be  reached  by  the  sharp  point  of  anguish. 
The  soul  that  bowed  to  no  right  bowed  to  the  great 
lord  of  mortals,  Pain. 

He  could  search  into  every  secret  of  Tito's  life 
now :  he  knew  some  of  the  secrets  already,  and  the 
failure  of  the  broken  dagger,  which  seemed  like 
frustration,  had  been  the  beginning  of  achievement. 
Doubtless  that  sudden  rage  had  shaken  away  the 
obstruction  which  stifled  his  soul.  Twice  before, 
when  his  memory  had  partially  returned,  it  had 
been  in  consequence  of  sudden  excitation, —  once 
when  he  had  had  to  defend  himself  from  an  enraged 
dog;  once  when  he  had  been  overtaken  by  the 
waves,  and  had  had  to  scramble  up  a  rock  to  save 
himself. 

Yes ;  but  if  this  time,  as  then,  the  light  were  to 
die  out,  and  the  dreary  conscious  blank  come  back 
again !  This  time  the  light  was  stronger  and 
steadier;  but  what  security  was  there  that  before 
the  morrow  the  dark  fog  would  not  be  round  him 
again  ?  Even  the  fear  seemed  like  the  beginning 
of  feebleness  :  he  thought  with  alarm  that  he  might 
sink  the  faster  for  this  excited  vigil  of  his  on  the 
hill,  which  was  expending  his  force ;  and  after 
seeking  anxiously  for  a  sheltered  corner  where  he 
might  lie  down,  he  nestled  at  last  against  a  heap 
of  warm  garden  straw,   and  so  fell  asleep. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  it  was  daylight 


1 88  KOMOLA. 

The  first  moments  were  filled  with  strange  bewil- 
derment :  he  was  a  man  with  a  double  identity ;  to 
which  had  he  awaked  ?  —  to  the  life  of  dim-sighted 
sensibilities  like  the  sad  heirship  of  some  fallen 
greatness,  or  to  the  life  of  recovered'  power  ?  Surely 
the  last,  for  the  events  of  the  night  all  came  back 
to  him,  —  the  recognition  of  the  page  in  Pausanias, 
the  crowding  resurgence  of  facts  and  names,  the 
sudden  wide  prospect  which  had  given  him  such 
a  moment  as  that  of  the  Maenad  in  the  glorious 
amaze  of  her  morning  waking  on  the  mountain  top. 

He  took  up  the  book  again,  he  read,  he  remem- 
bered without  reading.  He  saw  a  name,  and  the 
images  of  deeds  rose  with  it :  he  saw  the  mention 
of  a  deed,  and  he  linked  it  with  a  name.  There 
were  stories  of  inexpiable  crimes,  but  stories  also 
of  guilt  that  seemed  successful.  There  were  sanc- 
tuaries for  swift -footed  miscreants :  baseness  had 
its  armour,  and  the  weapons  of  justice  sometimes 
broke  against  it.  What  then  ?  If  baseness  tri- 
umphed everywhere  else,  if  it  could  heap  to  itself 
all  the  goods  of  the  world  and  even  hold  the  keys 
of  hell,  it  would  never  triumph  over  the  hatred 
which  it  had  itself  awakened.  It  could  devise  no 
torture  that  would  seem  greater  than  the  torture  of 
submitting  to  its  smile.  Baldassarre  felt  the  in- 
destructible independent  force  of  a  supreme  emotion, 
which  knows  no  terror,  and  asks  for  no  motive, 
which  is  itself  an  ever-burning  motive,  consuming 
all  other  desire.  And  now  in  this  morning  light, 
when  the  assurance  came  again  that  the  fine  fibres 
of  association  were  active  still,  and  that  his  recov- 
ered self  had  not  departed,  all  his  gladness  was  but 
the  hope  of  vengeance. 

From  that  time  till  the  evening  on  which  we 


THE  BLACK  MARKS  BECOME  MAGICAL.     189 

have  seen  him  enter  the  Eucellai  gardens,  he  had 
been  incessantly,  but  cautiously,  inquiring  into 
Tito's  position  and  all  his  circumstances,  and  there 
was  hardly  a  day  on  which  he  did  not  contrive  to 
follow  his  movements.  But  he  wished  not  to  arouse 
any  alarm  in  Tito :  he  wished  to  secure  a  moment 
when  the  hated  favourite  of  blind  fortune  was  at 
the  summit  of  confident  ease,  surrounded  by  chief 
men  on  whose  favour  he  depended.  It  was  not  any 
retributive  payment  or  recognition  of  himself  for 
his  own  behoof,  on  which  Baldassarre's  whole  soul 
was  bent :  it  was  to  find  the  sharpest  edge  of  dis- 
grace and  shame  by  which  a  selfish  smiler  could  be 
pierced;  it  was  to  send  through  his  marrow  the 
most  sudden  shock  of  dread.  He  was  content  to 
lie  hard,  and  live  stintedly, — he  had  spent  the 
greater  part  of  his  remaining  money  in  buying  an- 
other poniard  :  his  hunger  and  his  thirst  were  after 
nothing  exquisite  but  an  exquisite  vengeance.  He 
had  avoided  addressing  himself  to  any  one  whom 
he  suspected  of  intimacy  with  Tito,  lest  an  alarm 
raised  in  Tito's  mind  should  urge  him  either  to 
flight  or  to  some  other  counteracting  measure  which 
hard-pressed  ingenuity  might  devise.  For  this 
reason  he  had  never  entered  Nello's  shop,  which  he 
observed  that  Tito  frequented,  and  he  had  turned 
aside  to  avoid  meeting  Piero  di  Cosimo. 

The  possibility  of  frustration  gave  added  eager- 
ness to  his  desire  that  the  great  opportunity  he 
sought  should  not  be  deferred.  The  desire  was 
eager  in  him  on  another  ground :  he  trembled  lest 
his  memory  should  go  again.  Whether  from  the 
agitating  presence  of  that  fear,  or  from  some  other 
causes,  he  had  twice  felt  a  sort  of  mental  dizziness, 
in  which  the  inward  sense  or  imagination  seemed 


190  ROMOLA. 

to  be  losing  the  distinct  forms  of  things.  Once  he 
had  attempted  to  enter  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  and 
make  his  way  into  a  council-chamber  where  Tito 
was,  and  had  failed.  But  now,  on  this  evening, 
he  felt  that  his  occasion  was  come. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

A   SUPPER   IN   THE   RUCELLAI   GARDENS. 

On  entering  the  handsome  pavilion,  Tito's  quick 
ghince  soon  discerned  in  the  selection  of  the  guests 
the  confirmation  of  his  conjecture  that  the  object 
of  the  gathering  was  political,  though,  perhaps, 
nothing  more  distinct  than  that  strengthening  of 
party  which  comes  from  good-fellowship.  Good 
dishes  and  good  wine  were  at  that  time  believed  to 
heighten  the  consciousness  of  political  preferences, 
and  in  the  inspired  ease  of  after-supper  talk  it  was 
supposed  that  people  ascertained  their  own  opinions 
with  a  clearness  quite  inaccessible  to  uninvited 
stomachs.  The  Florentines  were  a  sober  and  frugal 
people ;  but  wherever  men  have  gathered  wealth, 
Madonna  della  Gozzoviglia  and  San  Buonvino  have 
had  their  worshippers ;  and  the  Eucellai  were  among 
the  few  Florentine  families  who  kept  a  great  table 
and  lived  splendidly.  It  was  not  probable  that  on 
this  evening  there  would  be  any  attempt  to  apply 
high  philosophic  theories ;  and  there  could  be  no 
objection  to  the  bust  of  Plato  looking  on,  or  even 
to  the  modest  presence  of  the  cardinal  virtues  in 
fresco  on  the  walls. 

That  bust  of  Plato  had  been  long  used  to  look 
down  on  conviviality  of  a  more  transcendental  sort, 
for  it  had  been  brought  from  Lorenzo's  villa  after  his 
death,  when  the  meetings  of  the  Platonic  Academy 


192  ROMOLA. 

had  been  transferred  to  these  gardens.  Especially 
on  every  13tli  of  November,  reputed  anniversary  of 
Plato's  death,  it  had  looked  down  from  under  laurel 
leaves  on  a  picked  company  of  scholars  and  phi- 
losophers, who  met  to  eat  and  drink  with  modera- 
tion, and  to  discuss  and  admire,  perhaps  with  less 
moderation,  the  doctrines  of  the  great  master,  —  on 
Pico  della  Mirandola,  once  a  Quixotic  young  genius 
with  long  curls,  astonished  at  his  own  powers  and 
astonishing  Eome  with  heterodox  theses,  afterwards 
a  more  humble  student  with  a  consuming  passion 
for  inward  perfection,  having  come  to  find  the 
universe  more  astonishing  than  his  own  cleverness ; 
on  innocent,  laborious  Marsilio  Ficino,  picked  out 
young  to  be  reared  as  a  Platonic  philosopher,  and 
fed  on  Platonism  in  all  its  stages  till  his  mind  was 
perhaps  a  little  pulpy  from  that  too  exclusive  diet ; 
on  Angelo  Poliziano,  chief  literary  genius  of  that 
age,  a  born  poet,  and  a  scholar  without  dulness, 
whose  phrases  had  blood  in  them  and  are  alive  still ; 
or,  further  back,  on  Leon  Battista  Alberti,  a  rev- 
erend senior  when  those  three  were  young,  and  of  a 
much  grander  type  than  they,  a  robust  universal 
mind,  at  once  practical  and  theoretic,  artist,  man  of 
science,  inventor,  poet ;  and  on  many  more  valiant 
workers  whose  names  are  not  registered  where  every 
day  we  turn  the  leaf  to  read  them,  but  whose 
labours  make  a  part,  though  an  unrecognized  part, 
of  our  inheritance,  like  the  ploughing  and  sowing 
of  past  generations. 

Bernardo  Kucellai  was  a  man  to  hold  a  distin- 
guished place  in  that  Academy  even  before  he  be- 
came its  host  and  patron.  He  was  still  in  the 
prime  of  life,  not  more  than  four  and  forty,  with  a 
somewhat  haughty,  cautiously  dignified  presence ; 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE   RUCELLAI  GARDENS.     193 

conscious  of  an  amazingly  pure  Latinity,  but,  says 
Erasmus,  not  to  be  caught  speaking  Latin,  —  no 
word  of  Latin  to  be  sheared  off  him  by  the  sliarpest 
of  Teutons.  He  welcomed  Tito  with  more  marked 
favour  than  usual,  and  gave  him  a  place  between 
Lorenzo  Tornabuoni  and  Giannozzo  Pucci,  both  of 
them  accomplished  young  members  of  the  Medicean 
party. 

Of  course  the  talk  was  the  lightest  in  the  world 
while  the  brass  bowl  filled  with  scented  water  was 
passing  round,  that  the  company  might  wash  their 
hands,  and  rings  flashed  on  white  fingers  under  the 
wax-lights,  and  there  was  the  pleasant  fragrance 
of  fresh  white  damask  newly  come  from  France. 
The  tone  of  remark  was  a  very  common  one  in  those 
times.  Some  one  asked  what  Dante's  pattern  old 
Florentine  would  think  if  the  life  could  come  into 
him  again  under  his  leathern  belt  and  bone  clasp, 
and  he  could  see  silver  forks  on  the  table  ?  And  it 
was  agreed  on  all  hands  that  the  habits  of  posterity 
would  be  very  surprising  to  ancestors,  if  ancestor-^; 
could  only  know  them. 

And  while  the  silver  forks  were  just  dallying 
with  the  appetizing  delicacies  that  introduced  the 
more  serious  business  of  the  supper, —  such  as  mor- 
sels of  liver,  cooked  to  that  exquisite  point  that 
they  would  melt  in  the  mouth,  —  there  was  time  to 
admire  the  designs  on  the  enamelled  silver  centres 
of  the  brass  service,  and  to  say  something,  as  usual, 
about  the  silver  dish  for  confetti,  a  masterpiece  of 
Antonio  Pollajuolo,  whom  patronizing  Popes  had 
seduced  from  his  native  Florence  to  more  gorgeous 
Rome. 

"  Ah,  I  remember, "  said  Niccolo  Ridolfi,  a  mid- 
dle-aged man,  with  that  negligent  ease  of  manner 

VOL.  II.  — 13 


194  ROMOLA. 

which,  seeming  to  claim  nothing,  is  really  based  on 
the  life-long  consciousness  of  commanding  rank,  — ■ 
"  I  remember  our  Antonio  getting  bitter  about  his 
chiselling  and  enamelling  of  these  metal  things, 
and  taking  in  a  fury  to  painting,  because,  said  he, 
'  the  artist  who  puts  his  work  into  gold  and  silver, 
puts  his  brains  into  the  melting-pot. '  " 

"  And  that  is  not  unlikely  to  be  a  true  foreboding 
of  Antonio's,"  said  Giannozzo  Pucci.  "If  this 
pretty  war  with  Pisa  goes  on,  and  the  revolt  only 
spreads  a  little  to  our  other  towns,  it  is  not  only 
our  silver  dishes  that  are  likely  to  go;  I  doubt 
whether  Antonio's  silver  saints  round  the  altar  of 
San  Giovanni  will  not  some  day  vanish  from  the 
eyes  of  the  faithful  to  be  worshipped  more  devoutly 
in  the  form  of  coin.  " 

"  The  Frate  is  preparing  us  for  that  already,  "  said 
Tornabuoni.  "  He  is  telling  the  people  that  God 
will  not  have  silver  crucifixes  and  starving  stom- 
achs ;  and  that  the  church  is  best  adorned  with  the 
gems  of  holiness  and  the  fine  gold  of  brotherly 
love.  " 

"  A  very  useful  doctrine  of  war-finance,  as  many 
a  Condottiere  has  found, "  said  Bernardo  Rucellai, 
dryly.  "  But  politics  come  on  after  the  confetti, 
Lorenzo,  when  we  can  drink  wine  enough  to  wash 
them  down ;  they  are  too  solid  to  be  taken  with 
roast  and  boiled.  " 

"  Yes,  indeed, "  said  Niccolo  Ptidolfi.  "  Our  Luigi 
Pulci  would  have  said  this  delicate  boiled  kid  must 
be  eaten  with  an  impartial  mind.  I  remember  one 
day  at  Careggi,  when  Luigi  was  in  his  rattling  vein 
he  was  maintaining  that  nothing  perverted  the  pal- 
ate like  opinion.  *  Opinion, '  said  he,  '  corrupts 
the  saliva, —  that 's  why  men  took  to  pepper.     Seep- 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI   GARDENS.     195 

ticism  is  the  only  philosophy  that  doesn't  bring  a 
taste  in  the  mouth. '  '  Nay, '  says  poor  Lorenzo 
de'  Medici,  '  you  must  be  out  there,  Luigi.  Here 
is  this  untainted  sceptic,  Matteo  Franco,  who 
wants  hotter  sauce  than  any  of  us. '  '  Because  he 
has  a  strong  opinion  of  himself, '  flashes  out  Luigi, 
*  which  is  the  original  egg  of  all  other  opinion.  JTe 
a  sceptic  ?  He  believes  in  the  immortality  of 
his  own  verses.  He  is  such  a  logician  as  that 
preaching  friar  who  described  the  pavement  of  the 
bottomless  pit. '  Poor  Luigi,  his  mind  was  like 
sharpest  steel  that  can  touch  nothing  without 
cutting. " 

"  And  yet  a  very  gentle-hearted  creature, "  said 
Giannozzo  Pucci.  "  It  seemed  to  me  his  talk  was 
a  mere  blowing  of  soap-bubbles.  "What  dithyrambs 
he  went  into  about  eating  and  drinking !  and  yet 
he  was  as  temperate  as  a  butterfly. " 

The  light  talk  and  the  solid  eatables  were  not 
soon  at  an  end,  for  after  the  roast  and  boiled  meats 
came  the  indispensable  capon  and  game,  and, 
crowning  glory  of  a  well-spread  table,  a  peacock 
cooked  according  to  the  receipt  of  Apicius  for  cook- 
ing partridges,  namely,  with  the  feathers  on,  but 
not  plucked  afterwards,  as  that  great  authority 
ordered  concerning  his  partridges ;  on  the  contrary, 
so  disposed  on  the  dish  that  it  might  look  as  much 
as  possible  like  a  live  peacock  taking  its  unboiled 
repose.  Great  was  the  skill  required  in  that  con- 
fidential servant  who  was  the  official  carver,  re- 
spectfully to  turn  the  classical  though  insipid  bird 
on  its  back,  and  expose  the  plucked  breast  from 
which  he  was  to  dispense  a  delicate  slice  to  each 
of  the  honourable  company,  unless  any  one  should 
be  of  so  independent  a  mind  as  to  decline  that  ex- 


196  ROMOLA. 

pensive  toughness  and  prefer  the  vulgar  digestibil- 
ity of  capon. 

Hardly  any  one  was  so  bold.  Tito  quoted  Horace, 
and  dispersed  his  slice  in  small  particles  over  his 
plate ;  Bernardo  Eucellai  made  a  learned  observa- 
tion about  the  ancient  price  of  peacocks'  eggs,  but 
did  not  pretend  to  eat  his  slice ;  and  Niccolo  Eidolfi 
held  a  mouthful  on  his  fork  while  he  told  a  favour- 
ite story  of  Luigi  Pulci's,  about  a  man  of  Siena, 
who,  wanting  to  give  a  splendid  entertainment  at 
moderate  expense,  bought  a  wild  goose,  cut  off  its 
beak  and  webbed  feet,  and  boiled  it  in  its  feathers, 
to  pass  for  a  pea-hen. 

In  fact,  very  little  peacock  was  eaten ;  but  there 
was  the  satisfaction  of  sitting  at  a  table  where 
peacock  was  served  up  in  a  remarkable  manner,  and 
of  knowing  that  such  caprices  were  not  within 
reach  of  any  but  those  who  supped  with  the  very 
wealthiest  men.  And  it  would  have  been  rashness 
to  speak  slightingly  of  peacock's  flesh,  or  any  other 
venerable  institution,  at  a  time  when  Fra  Girolamo 
was  teaching  the  disturbing  doctrine  that  it  was 
not  the  duty  of  the  rich  to  be  luxurious  for  the 
sake  of  the  poor. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  chill  obscurity  that  sur- 
rounded this  centre  of  warmth  and  light  and 
savoury  odours,  the  lonely  disowned  man  was  walk- 
ing in  gradually  narrowing  circuits.  He  paused 
among  the  trees,  and  looked  in  at  the  windows, 
which  made  brilliant  pictures  against  the  gloom. 
He  could  hear  the  laughter ;  he  could  see  Tito  ges- 
ticulating with  careless  grace,  and  hear  his  voice, 
now  alone,  now  mingling  in  the  merry  confusion 
of  interlacing  speeches.  Baldassarre's  mind  was 
highly  strung.     He  was  preparing  himself  for  the 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  EUCELLAI  GARDENS.     197 

moment  when  he  could  win  his  entrance  into  this 
brilliant  company  ;  and  he  had  a  savage  satisfaction 
in  the  sight  of  Tito's  easy  gayety,  whicli  seemed  to 
be  preparing  the  unconscious  victim  for  more 
effective  torture. 

But  the  men  seated  among  the  branching  tapers 
and  the  flashing  cups  could  know  nothing  of  the 
pale  fierce  face  that  watched  them  from  without. 
The  light  can  be  a  curtain  as  well  as  the  darkness. 

And  the  talk  went  on  with  more  eagerness  as  it 
became  less  disconnected  and  trivial.  The  sense 
of  citizenship  was  just  then  strongly  forced  even 
on  the  most  indifferent  minds.  What  the  over- 
mastering Fra  Girolamo  was  saying  and  prompting 
was  really  uppermost  in  the  thoughts  of  every  one 
at  table ;  and  before  the  stewed  fish  was  removed, 
and  while  the  favourite  sweets  were  yet  to  come, 
his  name  rose  to  the  surface  of  the  conversation,  and, 
in  spite  of  Eucellai's  previous  prohibition,  the  talk 
again  became  political.  At  first,  while  the  servants 
remained  present,  it  was  mere  gossip :  what  had 
been  done  in  the  Palazzo  on  the  first  day's  voting 
for  the  Great  Council,  how  hot-tempered  and  domi- 
neering Francesco  Valori  was,  as  if  he  were  to  have 
everything  his  own  way  by  right  of  his  austere 
virtue ;  and  how  it  was  clear  to  everybody  who 
heard  Soderini's  speeches  in  favour  of  the  Great 
Council  and  also  heard  the  Frate's  sermons,  that 
they  were  both  kneaded  in  the  same  trough. 

"  My  opinion  is, "  said  Niccolo  Eidolfi,  "  that  the 
Frate  has  a  longer  head  for  public  matters  than 
Soderini  or  any  Pingnone  among  them :  you  may 
depend  on  it  that  Soderini  is  his  mouthpiece  more 
than  he  is  Soderini's.  " 

"  No,   Niccolo ;    there   I  differ  from  you, "   said 


198  ROMOLA. 

Bernardo  Eucellai :  "  the  Frate  has  an  acute  mind, 
a7id  readily  sees  wliat  will  serve  his  own  ends ;  but 
it  is  not  likely  that  Pagolantonio  Soderini,  who  has 
had  long  experience  of  affairs,  and  has  specially 
studied  the  Venetian  Council,  should  be  much  in- 
debted to  a  monk  for  ideas  on  that  subject.  No, 
no ;  Soderini  loads  the  cannon ;  though,  I  grant 
you,  Fra  Girolamo  brings  the  powder  and  lights 
the  match.  He  is  master  of  the  people,  and  the 
people  are  getting  master  of  us.      Ecco !  " 

"  Well, "  said  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  presently, 
when  the  room  was  clear  of  servants,  and  nothing 
but  wine  was  passing  round,  "  whether  Soderini  is 
indebted  or  not,  we  are  indebted  to  the  Frate  for 
the  general  amnesty  which  has  gone  along  with  the 
scheme  of  the  Council.  We  might  have  done  with- 
out the  fear  of  God  and  the  reform  of  morals  being 
passed  by  a  majority  of  black  beans ;  but  that  ex- 
cellent proposition,  that  our  Medicean  heads  should 
be  allowed  to  remain  comfortably  on  our  shoulders, 
and  that  we  should  not  be  obliged  to  hand  over  our 
property  in  fines,  has  my  warm  approval,  and  it  is 
my  belief  that  nothing  but  the  Frate 's  predomi- 
nance could  have  procured  that  for  us.  And  you 
may  rely  on  it  that  Fra  Girolamo  is  as  firm  as  a 
rock  on  that  point  of  promoting  peace.  I  have  had 
an  interview  with  him.  " 

There  was  a  murmur  of  surprise  and  curiosity  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  table ;  but  Bernardo  Eucellai 
simply  nodded,  as  if  he  knew  what  Tornabuoni  had 
to  say,  and  wished  him  to  go  on. 

"  Yes, "  proceeded  Tornabuoni,  "  I  have  been  fa- 
voured with  an  interview  in  the  Frate 's  own  cell, 
which,  let  me  tell  you,  is  not  a  common  favour ;  for 
I  have  reason  to  believe  that  even  Francesco  Valori 


A  SUPPER  IN   THE   RUCELLAI   GARDENS.     199 

very  seldom  sees  him  in  private.  However,  I  think 
he  saw  me  the  more  willingly  because  I  was  not 
a  ready-made  follower,  but  had  to  be  converted. 
And,  for  my  part,  I  see  clearly  enough  that  the 
only  safe  and  wise  policy  for  us  Mediceans  to  pur- 
sue is  to  throw  our  strength  into  the  scale  of  the 
Frate's  party.  We  are  not  strong  enough  to  make 
head  on  our  own  behalf ;  and  if  the  Frate  and  the 
popular  party  were  upset,  every  one  who  hears  me 
knows  perfectly  well  what  other  party  would  be 
uppermost  just  now :  Nerli,  Alberti,  Pazzi,  and  the 
rest, — Arrahhiati,  as  somebody  christened  them 
the  other  day,  — who  instead  of  giving  us  an  am- 
nesty, would  be  inclined  to  fly  at  our  throats  like 
mad  dogs,  and  not  be  satisfied  till  they  had  ban- 
ished half  of  us.  " 

There  were  strong  interjections  of  assent  to  this 
last  sentence  of  Tornabuoni's,  as  he  paused  and 
looked  round  a  moment. 

"  A  wise  dissimulation, "  he  went  on,  "  is  the 
only  course  for  moderate  rational  men  in  times  of 
violent  party  feeling.  I  need  hardly  tell  this  com- 
pany what  are  my  real  political  attachments :  I  am 
not  the  only  man  here  who  has  strong  personal  ties 
to  the  banished  family ;  but,  apart  from  any  such 
ties,  I  agree  with  my  more  experienced  friends,  who 
are  allowing  me  to  speak  for  them  in  their  presence, 
that  the  only  lasting  and  peaceful  state  of  things  for 
Florence  is  the  predominance  of  some  single  family 
interest.  This  theory  of  the  Frate's  that  we  are  to 
have  a  popular  government,  in  which  every  man  is 
to  strive  only  for  the  general  good,  and  know  no 
party  names,  is  a  theory  that  may  do  for  some  isle 
of  Cristoforo  Colombo's  finding,  but  will  never  do 
for  our  tine  old  quarrelsome  Florence.     A  change 


200  ROMOLA. 

must  come  before  long,  and  with  patience  ana  cau- 
tion we  have  every  chance  of  determining  the 
change  in  our  favour.  Meanwhile,  the  best  thing 
we  can  do  will  be  to  keep  the  Prate's  flag  flying; 
for  if  any  other  were  to  be  hoisted  just  now,  it 
would  be  a  black  flag  for  us.  " 

"  It 's  true, "  said  Niccolo  Eidolfi,  in  a  curt,  de- 
cisive way.  "  Wliat  you  say  is  true,  Lorenzo.  For 
my  own  part,  I  am  too  old  for  anybody  to  believe 
that  I  've  changed  my  feathers.  And  there  are 
certain  of  us  —  our  old  Bernardo  del  Nero  for  one 
—  whom  you  w^ould  never  persuade  to  borrow  an- 
other man's  shield.  But  we  can  lie  still,  like 
sleepy  old  dogs ;  and  it 's  clear  enough  that  barking 
would  be  of  no  use  just  now.  As  for  this  psalm- 
singing  party,  who  vote  for  nothing  but  the  glory 
of  God,  and  want  to  make  believe  we  can  all  love 
each  other,  and  talk  as  if  vice  could  be  swept  out 
with  a  besom  by  the  Magnificent  Eight,  their  day 
will  not  be  a  long  one.  After  all  the  talk  of 
scholars,  there  are  but  two  sorts  of  government : 
one  where  men  show  their  teeth  at  each  other,  and 
one  where  men  show  their  tongues  and  lick  the 
feet  of  the  strongest.  They  '11  get  their  Great 
Council  finally  voted  to-morrow  —  that 's  certain 
enough  —  and  they'll  think  they've  found  out  a 
new  plan  of  government ;  but  as  sure  as  there  's  a 
human  skin  under  every  lucco  in  the  Council,  their 
new  plan  will  end  like  every  other,  in  snarling  or 
in  licking.  That 's  my  view  of  things  as  a  plain 
man.  Not  that  I  consider  it  becoming  in  men  of 
family  and  following,  who  have  got  others  depend- 
ing on  their  constancy  and  on  their  sticking  to 
their  colours,  to  go  a-hunting  with  a  fine  net  to 
catch  reasons  in  the  air,    like  doctors  of  law.      I 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI   GARDENS.    201 

say  frankly  that,  as  the  head  of  my  family,  I  shall 
be  true  to  my  old  alliances ;  and  I  have  never  yet 
seen  any  chalk-mark  on  political  reasons  to  tell  me 
which  is  true  and  which  is  false.  My  friend  Ber- 
nardo Rucellai  here  is  a  man  of  reasons,  I  know, 
and  I  have  no  objection  to  anybody's  finding  fine- 
spun reasons  for  me,  so  that  they  don't  interfere 
with  my  actions  as  a  man  of  family  who  has  faith 
to  keep  with  his  connections. " 

"  If  that  is  an  appeal  to  me,  Niccolo, "  said  Ber- 
nardo llucellai,  with  a  formal  dignity,  in  amusing 
contrast  with  Ridolfi's  curt  and  pithy  ease,  "  I 
may  take  this  opportunity  of  saying,  that  while  my 
wishes  are  partly  determined  by  lung -standing  per- 
sonal relations,  I  cannot  enter  into  any  positive 
schemes  with  persons  over  whose  actions  I  have  no 
control.  I  myself  might  be  content  with  a  restora- 
tion of  the  old  order  of  things ;  but  with  modifica- 
tions,—  with  important  modifications.  And  the  one 
point  on  which  I  wish  to  declare  my  concurrence 
with  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni  is,  that  the  best  policy 
to  be  pursu(!d  by  our  friends  is,  to  throw  the  weight 
of  their  interest  into  the  scale  of  the  popular  party. 
For  myself,  I  condescend  to  no  dissimulation ;  nor 
do  I  at  present  see  the  party  or  the  scheme  that 
commands  my  full  assent.  In  all  alike  there  is 
crudity  and  confusion  of  ideas,  and  of  all  the  twenty 
men  who  are  my  colleagues  in  the  present  crisis, 
there  is  not  one  with  whom  I  do  not  find  myself  in 
wide  disagreement.  " 

Niccolo  Kidulfi  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  left 
it  to  some  one  else  to  take  up  the  ball.  As  the 
wine  went  round,  the  talk  became  more  and  more 
frank  and  lively,  and  the  desire  of  several  at  once 
to  be  the  chief  speaker,  as  usual,  caused  the  com- 


202  ROMOLA. 

pany  to  break   up    into   small   knots  of   two  and 
three. 

It  was  a  result  which  had  been  foreseen  by 
Lorenzo  Tornabuoni  and  Giannozzo  Pucci,  and  they 
were  among  the  first  to  turn  aside  from  the  high- 
road of  general  talk  and  enter  into  a  special 
conversation  with  Tito,  who  sat  between  them ; 
gradually  pushing  away  their  seats,  and  turning 
their  backs  on  the  table  and  wine. 

"  In  truth,  Melema, "  Tornabuoni  was  saying  at 
this  stage,  laying  one  hose-clad  leg  across  the  knee 
of  the  other,  and  caressing  his  ankle,  "  I  know  of 
no  man  in  Florence  who  can  serve  our  party  better 
than  you.  You  see  what  most  of  our  friends  are, — 
men  who  can  no  more  hide  their  prejudices  than  a 
dos  can  hide  the  natural  tone  of  his  bark,  or  else 
men  whose  political  ties  are  so  notorious  that  they 
must  always  be  objects  of  suspicion.  Giannozzo 
here,  and  I,  I  flatter  myself,  are  able  to  overcome 
that  suspicion ;  we  have  that  power  of  concealment 
and  finesse  without  which  a  rational  cultivated 
man,  instead  of  having  any  prerogative,  is  really  at 
a  disadvantage  compared  with  a  wild  bull  or  a  sav- 
age. But,  except  yourself,  I  know  of  no  one  else 
on  whom  we  could  rely  for  the  necessary  discretion.  " 

"  Yes, "  said  Giannozzo  Pucci,  laying  his  hand 
on  Tito's  shoulder,  "  the  fact  is,  Tito  mio,  you  can 
help  us  better  than  if  you  were  Ulysses  himself, 
for  I  am  convinced  that  Ulysses  often  made  him- 
self disagreeable.  To  manage  men  one  ought  to 
have  a  sharp  mind  in  a  velvet  sheath.  And  there 
is  not  a  soul  in  Florence  who  could  undertake  a 
business  like  this  journey  to  Eome,  for  example, 
with  the  same  safety  that  you  can.  There  is  your 
scholarship,   which  may  always  be   a  pretext  for 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.  203 

such  journeys;  nnd  what  is  better,  there  is  your 
talent,  which  it  would  be  harder  to  match  than 
your  scholarship.  Niccolu  Macchiavelli  might 
have  done  for  us  if  he  had  been  on  our  side,  but 
hardly  so  well.  He  is  too  much  bitten  with  no- 
tions, and  has  not  your  power  of  fascination.  All 
the  worse  for  him.  He  has  lost  a  great  chance  in 
life,  and  you  have  got  it.  " 

"  Yes, "  said  Toruabuoni,  lowering  his  voice  in  a 
significant  manner,  "  you  have  only  to  play  your 
game  well,  Melema,  and  the  future  belongs  to  you. 
For  the  Medici,  you  may  rely  upon  it,  will  keep  a 
foot  in  Rome  as  well  as  in  Florence,  and  the  time 
may  not  be  far  off  when  they  will  be  able  to  make 
a  finer  career  for  their  adherents  even  than  they 
did  in  old  days.  Why  shouldn't  you  take  orders 
some  day?  There  's  a  cardinal's  hat  at  the  end  of 
that  road,  and  you  would  not  be  the  first  Greek 
who  has  worn  that  ornament. " 

Tito  laughed  gayly.  He  was  too  acute  not  to 
measure  Tornabuoni's  exaggerated  flattery,  but  still 
the  flattery  had  a  pleasant  flavour. 

"  My  joints  are  not  so  stiff  yet,"  he  said,  "  that 
I  can't  be  induced  to  run  without  such  a  high  prize 
as  that.  I  think  the  income  of  an  abbey  or  two 
held  '  in  commendam, '  without  the  trouble  of  get- 
ting my  head  shaved,  would  satisfy  me  at  present.  " 

"  I  was  not  joking, "  said  Tornabuoni,  with  grave 
suavity ;  "  I  think  a  scholar  would  always  be  the 
better  off  for  taking  orders.  But  we  '11  talk  of  that 
another  time.  One  of  the  objects  to  be  first  borne 
in  mind  is  that  you  should  win  the  confidence  of 
the  men  who  hang  about  San  Marco ;  that  is  what 
Giannozzo  and  I  shall  do,  but  you  may  carry  it  far- 
ther than  we  can,  because  you  are  less  observed. 


204  ROMOLA. 

In  that  way  you  can  get  a  tliorough  knowledge  of 
their  doings,  and  you  will  make  a  broader  screen 
for  your  agency  on  our  side.  Nothing  of  course 
can  be  done  before  you  start  for  Eome,  because  this 
bit  of  business  between  Piero  de'  Medici  and  the 
French  nobles  must  be  effected  at  once.  I  mean 
when  you  come  back,  of  course ;  I  need  say  no 
more.  I  believe  you  could  make  yourself  the  pet 
votary  of  San  Marco,  if  you  liked ;  but .  you  are 
wise  enough  to  know  that  effective  dissimulation 
is  never  immoderate.  " 

"  If  it  were  not  that  an  adhesion  to  the  popular  side 
is  necessary  to  your  safety  as  an  agent  of  our  party, 
Tito  mio, "  said  Giannozzo  Pucci,  who  was  more 
fraternal  and  less  patronizing  in  his  manner  than 
Tornabuoni,  "  I  could  have  wished  your  skill  to  have 
been  employed  in  another  way,  for  which  it  is  still 
better  fitted.  But  now  we  must  look  out  for  some 
other  man  among  us  who  will  manage  to  get  into 
the  confidence  of  our  sworn  enemies,  the  Arrab- 
biati ;  we  need  to  know  their  movements  more  than 
those  of  the  Prate's  party,  who  are  strong  enough 
to  play  above-board.  Still,  it  would  have  been  a 
difficult  thing  for  you,  from  your  known  relations 
with  the  Medici  a  little  while  back,  and  that  sort 
of  kinship  your  wife  has  with  Bernardo  del  Nero. 
We  must  find  a  man  who  has  no  distinguished  con- 
nections, and  who  has  not  yet  taken  any  side. " 

Tito  was  pushing  his  hair  backward  automati- 
cally, as  his  manner  was,  and  looking  straight  at 
Pucci  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  smile  on  his  lip. 

"  No  need  to  look  out  for  any  one  else, "  he  said 
promptly.  "  I  can  manage  the  whole  business  with 
perfect  ease.  I  will  engage  to  make  myself  the 
special  confidant  of  that  thick-headed  Dolfo  Spini, 


OF  THE 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.     205 

and  know  his  projects  before  he  knows  them  him- 
self. " 

Tito  seldom  spoke  so  confidently  of  his  own 
powers,  but  he  was  in  a  state  of  exultation  at  the 
sudden  opening  of  a  new  path  before  him,  where 
fortune  seemed  to  have  hung  higher  prizes  than 
any  he  had  thought  of  hitherto.  Hitherto  he  had 
seen  success  only  in  the  form  of  favour;  it  now 
flashed  on  him  in  the  shape  of  power,  —  of  such 
power  as  is  possible  to  talent  without  traditional 
ties  and  without  beliefs.  Each  party  that  thought 
of  him  as  a  tool  might  become  dependent  on  him. 
His  position  as  an  alien,  his  indifference  to  the 
ideas  or  prejudices  of  the  men  among  whom  he 
moved,  were  suddenly  transformed  into  advan- 
tages ;  he  became  newly  conscious  of  his  own  adroit- 
ness in  the  presence  of  a  game  that  he  was  called 
on  to  play.  And  all  the  motives  which  might  have 
made  Tito  shrink  from  the  triple  deceit  that  came 
before  him  as  a  tempting  game  had  been  slowly 
strangled  in  him  by  the  successive  falsities  of  his 
life. 

Our  lives  make  a  moral  tradition  for  our  indi- 
vidual selves,  as  the  life  of  mankind  at  large  makes 
a  moral  tradition  for  the  race ;  and  to  have  once 
acted  nobly  seems  a  reason  why  we  should  always 
be  noble.  But  Tito  was  feeling  the  effect  of  an 
opposite  tradition :  he  had  won  no  memories  of 
self-conquest  and  perfect  faithfulness  from  which 
he  could  have  a  sense  of  falling. 

The  triple  colloquy  went  on  with  growing  spirit 
till  it  was  interrupted  by  a  call  from  the  table. 
Probably  the  movement  came  from  the  listeners  in 
the  party,  who  were  afraid  lest  the  talkers  should 
tire  themselves.     At  all  events  it  was  agreed  that 


2o6  ROMOLA. 

there  had  been  enough  of  gravity,  and  Eucellai  had 
just  ordered  new  flasks  of  Montepulciano. 

"  How  many  minstrels  are  there  among  us  ?  "  he 
said,  when  there  had  been  a  general  rallying  round 
the  table.  "  Melema,  I  think  you  are  the  chief: 
Matteo  will  give  you  the  lute. " 

"  Ah,  yes !  "  said  Giannozzo  Pucci,  "  lead  the  last 
chorus  from  Poliziano's  '  Orfeo, '  that  you  have 
found  such  an  excellent  measure  for,  and'  we  will 
all  fall  in:  — 

'  Ciascun  segua,  o  Bacco,  te : 
Bacco,  Bacco,  evoe,  evoe!'" 

The  servant  put  the  lute  into  Tito's  hands,  and 
then  said  something  in  an  undertone  to  his  master. 
A  little  subdued  questioning  and  answering  went 
on  between  them,  while  Tito  touched  the  lute  in  a 
preluding  way  to  the  strain  of  the  chorus,  and  there 
was  a  confusion  of  speech  and  musical  humming  all 
round  the  table.  Bernardo  Eucellai  had  said, 
"  Wait  a  moment,  Melema ;  "  but  the  words  had 
been  unheard  by  Tito,  who  was  leaning  towards 
Pucci,  and  singing  low  to  him  the  phrases  of  the 
MiTenad-chorus.  He  noticed  nothing  until  the  buzz 
round  the  table  suddenly- ceased,  and  the  notes  of 
his  own  voice,  with  its  soft  low-toned  triumph, 
"  Evoe,  evofe !  "  fell  in  startling  isolation. 

It  was  a  strange  moment.  Baldassarre  had  moved 
round  the  table  till  he  was  opposite  Tito ;  and  as 
the  hum  ceased,  there  might  be  seen  for  an  instant 
Baldassarre 's  fierce  dark  eyes  bent  on  Tito's  bright, 
smiling  unconsciousness,  while  the  low  notes  of 
triumph  dropped  from  his  lips  into  the  silence. 

Tito  looked  up  with  a  slight  start,  and  his  lips 
turned  pale,  but  he  seemed  hardly  more  moved 
than  Giannozzo  Pucci,  who  had  looked  up  at  the 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.     207 

same  moment,  — or  even  than  several  others  round 
the  table ;  for  that  sallow  deep-lined  face  with  the 
hatred  in  its  eyes  seemed  a  terrible  apparition 
across  the  wax-lit  ease  and  gayety.  And  Tito 
quickly  recovered  some  self-command.  "  A  mad 
old  man,  —  he  looks  like  it,  —  he  is  mad !  "  was 
the  instantaneous  thought  that  brought  some  cour- 
age with  it;  for  he  could  conjecture  no  inward 
change  in  Baldassarre  since  they  had  met  before. 
He  just  let  his  eyes  fall  and  laid  the  lute  on  the 
table  with  apparent  ease ;  but  his  fingers  pinched 
the  neck  of  the  lute  hard  while  he  governed  his 
head  and  his  glance  sufficiently  to  look  with  an 
air  of  quiet  appeal  towards  Bernardo  Eucellai,  who 
said  at  once, — 

"  Good  man,  what  is  your  business  ?  "What  is 
the  important  declaration  that  you  have  to  make  ?  " 

"  Messer  Bernardo  Eucellai,  I  wish  you  and  your 
honourable  friends  to  know  in  what  sort  of  com- 
pany you  are  sitting.      There   is  a  traitor  among 

you. " 

There  was  a  general  movement  of  alarm.  Every 
one  present,  except  Tito,  thought  of  political  dan- 
ger and  not  of  private  injury. 

Baldassarre  began  to  speak  as  if  he  were  thor- 
oughly assured  of  what  he  had  to  say ;  but  in  spite 
of  his  long  preparation  for  this  moment,  there  was 
the  tremor  of  overmastering  excitement  in  his  voice. 
His  passion  shook  him.  He  went  on,  but  he  did 
not  say  what  he  had  meant  to  say.  As  lie  fixed  his 
eyes  on  Tito  again,  tlie  passionate  words  were  like 
blows, — they  defied  premeditation. 

"  There  is  a  man  among  you  who  is  a  scoundrel, 
a  liar,  a  robber.  I  was  a  father  to  liim.  I  took 
him  from  beggary  when  he  was  a  child.      I  reared 


2o8  ROMOLA. 

him,  I  cherished  him,  I  taught  him,  I  made  him  a 
scholar.  My  head  has  lain  hard  that  his  might 
have  a  pillow.  And  he  left  me  in  slavery ;  he  sold 
the  gems  that  were  mine,  and  when  I  came  again, 
he  denied  me. " 

The  last  words  had  been  uttered  with  almost 
convulsed  agitation ;  and  Baldassarre  paused,  trem- 
bling. All  glances  were  turned  on  Tito,  who  was 
now  looking  straight  at  Baldassarre.  It  was  a  mo- 
ment of  desperation  that  annihilated  all  feeling  in 
him,  except  the  determination  to  risk  anything  for 
the  chance  of  escape.  And  he  gathered  confidence 
from  the  agitation  by  which  Baldassarre  was  evi- 
dently shaken.  He  had  ceased  to  pinch  the  neck 
of  the  lute,  and  had  thrust  his  thumbs  into  his 
belt,  while  his  lips  had  begun  to  assume  a  slight 
curl.  He  had  never  yet  done  an  act  of  murderous 
cruelty  even  to  the  smallest  animal  that  could  utter 
a  cry,  but  at  that  moment  he  would  have  been  ca- 
pable of  treading  the  breath  from  a  smiling  child 
for  the  sake  of  his  own  safety. 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Melema  ?  "  said  Bernardo 
Eucellai,  in  a  tone  of  cautious  surprise.  He,  as 
well  as  the  rest  of  the  company,  felt  relieved  that 
the  tenor  of  the  accusation  was  not  political. 

"  Messer  Bernardo, "  said  Tito,  "  I  believe  this 
man  is  mad.  I  did  not  recognize  him  the  first 
time  he  encountered  me  in  Florence,  but  I  know 
now  that  he  is  the  servant  who  years  ago  accom- 
panied me  and  my  adoptive  father  to  Greece,  and 
was  dismissed  on  account  of  misdemeanours.  His 
name  is  Jacopo  di  Nola.  Even  at  that  time  I  be- 
lieve his  mind  was  unhinged,  for,  without  any 
reason,  he  had  conceived  a  strange  hatred  towards 
me ;  and  now  I  am  convinced  that  he  is  labouring 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS      209 

under  a  mania  which  causes  him  to  mistake  his 
identity.  He  has  already  attempted  my  life  since 
he  has  been  in  Florence ;  and  I  am  in  constant 
danger  from  him.  But  he  is  an  object  of  pity 
rather  than  of  indignation.  It  is  too  certain  that 
my  father  is  dead.  You  have  only  my  word  for  it ; 
but  I  must  leave  it  to  your  judgment  how  far  it  is 
probable  that  a  man  of  intellect  and  learning  would 
have  been  lurking  about  in  dark  corners  for  the  last 
month  with  the  purpose  of  assassinating  me ;  or 
how  far  it  is  probable  that  if  this  man  were  my 
second  father,  I  could  have  any  motive  for  denying 
him.  That  story  about  my  being  rescued  from 
beggary  is  the  vision  of  a  diseased  brain.  But  it 
will  be  a  satisfaction  to  me  at  least  if  you  will  de- 
mand from  him  proofs  of  his  identity,  lest  any 
malignant  person  should  choose  to  make  this  mad 
impeacliment  a  reproach  to  me. " 

Tito  had  felt  more  and  more  confidence  as  he  went 
on  :  the  lie  was  not  so  difficult  when  it  was  once  be- 
gun ;  and  as  the  words  fell  easily  from  his  lips, 
they  gave  him  a  sense  of  power  such  as  men  feel 
when  they  have  begun  a  muscular  feat  successfully. 
In  this  way  he  acquired  boldness  enough  to  end 
with  a  challenge  for  proofs. 

Baldassarre,  while  he  had  been  walking  in  the 
gardens  and  afterwards  waiting  in  an  outer  room 
of  the  pavilion  with  the  servants,  had  been  making 
anew  the  digest  of  the  evidence  he  would  brine:  to 
prove  his  identity  and  Tito's  baseness,  recalling  the 
description  and  history  of  his  gems,  and  assuring 
himself  by  rapid  mental  glances  that  he  could  at- 
test his  learning  and  his  travels.  It  might  be 
partly  owing  to  this  nervous  strain  that  the  new 
shock  of  rage  he  felt  as  Tito's  lie  fell  on  his  ears 

VOL.   II. —  14 


2IO  ROMOLA. 

brought  a  strange  bodily  effect  with  it :  a  cold 
stream  seemed  to  rush  over  him,  and  the  last  words 
of  the  speech  seemed  to  be  drowned  by  ringing 
chimes.  Thought  gave  way  to  a  dizzy  horror,  as  if 
the  earth  were  slipping  away  from  under  him. 
Every  one  in  the  room  was  looking  at  him  as  Tito 
ended,  and  saw  that  the  eyes  which  had  had  such 
fierce  intensity  only  a  few  minutes  before  had  now 
a  vague  fear  in  them.  He  clutched  the  back  of  a 
seat,  and  was  silent. 

Hardly  any  evidence  could  have  been  more  in 
favour  of  Tito's  assertion. 

"  Surely  I  have '  seen  this  man  before,  some- 
where,"  said  Tornabuoni. 

"  Certainly  you  have, "  said  Tito,  readily,  in  a 
low  tone.  "  He  is  the  escaped  prisoner  who 
clutched  me  on  the  steps  of  the  Duomo.  I  did  not 
recognize  him  then ;  he  looks  now  more  as  he  used 
to  do,  except  that  he  has  a  more  unmistakable  air 
of  mad  imbecility. " 

"  I  cast  no  doubt  on  your  word,  Melema, "  said 
Bernardo  Eucellai,  with  cautious  gravity,  "  but 
you  are  right  to  desire  some  positive  test  of 
the  fact. "  Then  turning  to  Baldassarre,  he  said : 
"  If  you  are  the  person  you  claim  to  be,  you 
can  doubtless  give  some  description  of  the  gems 
which  were  your  property.  I  myself  was  the  pur- 
chaser of  more  than  one  gem  from  Messer  Tito,  — 
the  chief  rings,  I  believe,  in  his  collection.  One 
of  them  is  a  fine  sard,  engraved  with  a  subject  from 
Homer.  If,  as  you  allege,  you  are  a  scholar,  and 
the  rightful  owner  of  that  ring,  you  can  doubtless 
turn  to  the  noted  passage  in  Homer  from  which 
that  subject  is  taken.  Do  you  accept  this  test, 
Melema?  or  have  you  anything  to  allege  against 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.     211 

its  validity  ?     The  Jacopo  you  speak  of,  was  he  a 
scholar  ?  " 

It  was  a  fearful  crisis  for  Tito.  If  he  said 
"  Yes, "  his  quick  mind  told  him  that  he  would 
shake  the  credibility  of  his  story ;  if  he  said  "  No, " 
he  risked  everything  on  the  uncertain  extent  of 
Baldassarre's  imbecility.  But  there  was  no  no- 
ticeable pause  before  he  said,  "  No.  I  accept  the 
test. " 

There  was  a  dead  silence  while  Eucellai  moved 
towards  the  recess  where  the  books  were,  and  came 
back  with  the  fine  Florentine  Homer  in  his  hand. 
Baldassarre,  when  he  was  addressed,  had  turned  his 
head  towards  the  speaker,  and  Eucellai  believed 
that  he  had  understood  him.  But  he  chose  to  re- 
peat what  he  had  said,  that  there  might  be  no  mis- 
take as  to  the  test. 

"  The  ring  I  possess, "  he  said,  "  is  a  fine  sard, 
engraved  with  a  subject  from  Homer.  There  Avas 
no  other  at  all  resembling  it  in  Messer  Tito's  col- 
lection. Will  you  turn  to  the  passage  in  Homer 
from  which  that  subject  is  taken  ?  Seat  yourself 
here, "  he  added,  laying  the  book  on  the  table,  and 
pointing  to  his  own  seat  while  he  stood  beside  it. 

Baldassarre  had  so  far  recovered  from  the  first 
confused  horror  produced  by  the  sensation  of  rush- 
ing coldness  and  chiming  din  in  the  ears  as  to  be 
partly  aware  of  what  was  said  to  him :  he  was 
aware  that  something  was  being  demanded  from 
him  to  prove  his  identity,  but  he  formed  no  dis- 
tinct idea  of  the  details.  The  sight  of  the  book 
recalled  the  habitual  longing  and  faint  hope  that 
he  could  read  and  understand,  and  he  moved  towards 
the  chair  immediately. 

The  book  was  open  before  him,  and  he  bent  his 


212  ROMOLA. 

head  a  little  towards  it,  while  everybody  watched 
him  eagerly.  He  turned  no  leaf.  His  eyes  wan- 
dered over  the  pages  that  lay  before  him,  and  then 
fixed  on  them  a  straining  gaze.  This  lasted  for  two 
or  three  minutes  in  dead  silence.  Then  he  lifted 
his  hands  to  each  side  of  his  head,  and  said,  in  a 
low  tone  of  despair,   "  Lost,   lost !  " 

There  was  something  so  piteous  in  the  wandering 
look  and  the  low  cry,  that  while  they  confirmed 
the  belief  in  his  madness  they  raised  compassion. 
Nay,  so  distinct  sometimes  is  the  working  of  a 
double  consciousness  within  us,  that  Tito  himself, 
while  he  triumphed  in  the  apparent  verification  of 
his  lie,  wished  that  he  had  never  made  the  lie 
necessary  to  himself,  —  wished  he  had  recognized 
his  father  on  the  steps,  —  wished  he  had  gone  to 
seek  him,  —  wished  everything  had  been  different. 
But  he  had  borrowed  from  the  terrible  usurer 
Falsehood,  and  the  loan  had  mounted  and  mounted 
with  the  years,  till  he  belonged  to  the  usurer,  body 
and  soul. 

The  compassion  excited  in  all  the  witnesses  was 
not  without  its  danger  to  Tito ;  for  conjecture  is 
constantly  guided  by  feeling,  and  more  than  one 
person  suddenly  conceived  that  this  man  might 
have  been  a  scholar  and  have  lost  his  faculties. 
On  the  other  hand,  they  had  not  present  to  their 
minds  the  motives  which  could  have  led  Tito  to 
the  denial  of  his  benefactor,  and  having  no  ill-will 
towards  him,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  them  to 
believe  that  he  had  been  uttering  the  basest  of  lies. 
And  the  originally  common  type  of  Baldassarre's 
person,  coarsened  by  years  of  hardship,  told  as  a 
confirmation  of  Tito's  lie.  If  Baldassarre,  to  be- 
gin with,  could  have  uttered  precisely  the  words 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.    213 

he  had  premeditated,  there  might  have  been  some- 
thing in  the  form  of  his  accusation  which  would 
have  given  it  the  stamp  not  only  of  true  experience 
but  of  mental  refinement.  But  there  had  been  no 
such  testimony  in  his  impulsive  agitated  words; 
and  there  seemed  the  very  opposite  testimony  in 
the  rugged  face  and  the  coarse  hands  that  trembled 
beside  it,  standing  out  in  strong  contrast  in  the 
midst  of  that  velvet-clad,  fair-handed  company. 

His  next  movement,  while  he  was  being  watched 
in  silence,  told  against  him  too.  He  took  his 
hands  from  his  head,  and  felt  for  something  under 
his  tunic.  Every  one  guessed  what  that  movement 
meant,  — guessed  that  there  was  a  weapon  at  his 
side.  Glances  were  interchanged ;  and  Bernardo 
Rucellai  said,  in  a  quiet  tone,  touching  Baldas- 
sarre's  shoulder,  — 

"  My  friend,  this  is  an  important  business  of 
yours.  You  shall  have  all  justice.  Follow  me 
into  a  private  room. " 

Baldassarre  was  still  in  that  half-stunned  state 
in  which  he  was  susceptible  to  any  prompting,  in 
the  same  way  as  an  insect  that  forms  no  conception 
of  what  the  prompting  leads  to.  He  rose  from  his 
seat,  and  followed  Eucellai  out  of  the  room. 

In  two  or  three  minutes  Rucellai  came  back 
again,   and  said,  — 

"  He  is  safe  under  lock  and  key.  Piero  Pitti, 
you  are  one  of  the  Magnificent  Eight,  what  do  you 
think  of  our  sending  Matteo  to  the  palace  for  a 
couple  of  sbirri,  who  may  escort  him  to  the 
Stinche  ?  ^  If  there  is  any  danger  in  him,  as  I 
think  there  is,  he  will  be  safe  there;  and  we  can 
inquire  about  him  to-morrow. " 

1  The  largest  prison  in  Florence. 


214  ROMOLA. 

Pitti  assented,  and  the  order  was  given. 

"  He  is  certainly  an  ill-looking  fellow, "  said 
Tornabuoni.  "  And  you  say  he  has  attempted  your 
life  already,  Melema  ?  " 

And  the  talk  turned  on  the  various  forms  of  mad- 
ness, and  the  fierceness  of  the  southern  blood.  If 
the  seeds  of  conjecture  unfavourable  to  Tito  had 
been  planted  in  the  mind  of  any  one  present,  they 
were  hardly  strong  enough  to  grow  without  the  aid 
of  much  daylight  and  ill-will.  The  common-look- 
ing, wild-eyed  old  man,  clad  in  serge,  might  have 
won  belief  without  very  strong  evidence,  if  he  had 
accused  a  man  who  was  envied  and  disliked.  As 
it  was,  the  only  congruous  and  probable  view  of 
the  case  seemed  to  be  the  one  that  sent  the  unpleas- 
ant accuser  safely  out  of  sight,  and  left  the  pleas- 
ant serviceable  Tito  just  where  he  was  before. 

The  subject  gradually  floated  away,  and  gave 
place  to  others,  till  a  heavy  tramp,  and  something 
like  the  struggling  of  a  man  who  was  being  dragged 
away,  were  heard  outside.  The  sounds  soon  died 
out,  and  the  interruption  seemed  to  make  the  last 
hour's  conviviality  more  resolute  and  vigorous. 
Every  one  was  willing  to  forget  a  disagreeable 
incident. 

Tito's  heart  was  palpitating,  and  the  wine  tasted 
no  better  to  him  than  if  it  had  been  blood. 

To-night  he  had  paid  a  heavier  price  than  ever  to 
make  himself  safe.  He  did  not  like  the  price,  and 
yet  it  was  inevitable  that  he  should  be  glad  of  the 
purchase. 

And  after  all  he  led  the  chorus.  He  was  in  a 
state  of  excitement  in  which  oppressive  sensations, 
and  the  wretched  consciousness  of  something  hate- 
ful but  irrevocable,   were  mingled  with  a  feeling 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI   GARDENS.    215 

of  triumph  which  seemed  to  assert  itself  as  the 
feeling  that  would  subsist  and  be  master  of  the 
morrow. 

And  it  was  master.  For  on  the  morrow,  as  we 
saw,  when  he  was  about  to  start  on  his  mission  to 
Rome,  he  had  the  air  of  a  man  well  satisfied  with 
the  world. 


CHAPTEE    XX. 

AN   ARRESTING   VOICE. 

When  Eomola  sat  down  on  the  stone  under  the 
cypress,  all  things  conspired  to  give  her  the  sense 
of  freedom  and  solitude,  —  her  escape  from  the  ac- 
customed walls  and  streets ;  the  widening  distance 
from  her  husband,  who  was  by  this  time  riding 
towards  Siena,  while  every  hour  would  take  her 
farther  on  the  opposite  way ;  the  morning  stillness ; 
the  great  dip  of  ground  on  the  roadside  making  a 
gulf  between  her  and  the  sombre  calm  of  the  moun- 
tains. For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  alone 
in  the  presence  of  the  earth  and  sky,  with  no  hu- 
man presence  interposing  and  making  a  law  for 
her. 

Suddenly  a  voice  close  to  her  said,  — 
"  You  are  Eomola  de'  Bardi,   the  wife  of  Tito 
Melema. " 

She  knew  the  voice, —  it  had  vibrated  through  her 
more  than  once  before;  and  because  she  knew  it, 
she  did  not  turn  round  or  look  up.  She  sat  shaken 
by  awe,  and  yet  inwardly  rebelling  against  the 
awe.  It  was  one  of  those  black-skirted  monks  who 
was  daring  to  speak  to  her,  and  interfere  with  her 
privacy :  that  was  all.  And  yet  she  was  shaken, 
as  if  that  destiny  which  men  thought  of  as  a  scep- 
tred deity  had  come  to  her,  and  grasped  her  with 
fingers  of  flesh. 


AN  ARRESTING  VOICE.  217 

**  You  are  fleeing  from  Florence  in  disguise.  I 
have  a  command  from  God  to  stop  you.  You  are 
not  permitted  to  flee. " 

Eomola's  anger  at  the  intrusion  mounted  higher 
at  these  imperative  words.  She  would  not  turn 
round  to  look  at  the  speaker,  whose  examining 
gaze  she  resented.  Sitting  quite  motionless,  she 
said,  — 

"  What  right  have  you  to  speak  to  me  or  to 
hinder  me  ?  " 

"  The  right  of  a  messenger.  You  have  put  on  a 
religious  garb,  and  you  have  no  religious  purpose. 
You  have  sought  the  garb  as  a  disguise.  But  you 
were  not  suffered  to  pass  me  without  being  dis- 
cerned. It  was  declared  to  me  who  you  were :  it 
is  declared  to  me  that  you  are  seeking  to  escape 
from  the  lot  God  has  laid  upon  you.  You  wish 
your  true  name  and  your  true  place  in  life  to  be 
hidden,  that  you  may  choose  for  yourself  a  new 
name  and  a  new  place,  and  have  no  rule  but  your 
own  will.  And  I  have  a  command  to  call  you 
back.  My  daughter,  you  must  return  to  your 
place. " 

Eomola's  mind  rose  in  stronger  rebellion  with 
every  sentence.  She  was  the  more  determined  not 
to  show  any  sign  of  submission,  because  the  con- 
sciousness of  being  inwardly  shaken  made  her 
dread  lest  she  should  fall  into  irresolution.  She 
spoke  with  more  irritation  than  before. 

"  I  will  not  return.  I  acknowledge  no  right  of 
priests  and  monks  to  interfere  with  my  actions. 
You  have  no  power  over  me. " 

"  I  know  —  I  know  you  have  been  brought  up  in 
scorn  of  obedience.  But  it  is  not  the  poor  monk 
who  claims  to  interfere  with  you :  it  is  the  truth 


2i8  ROMOLA. 

that  commands  you.  And  you  cannot  escape  it. 
Either  you  must  obey  it,  and  it  will  lead  you ;  or 
you  must  disobey  it,  and  it  will  hang  on  you  with 
the  weight  of  a  chain  which  you  will  drag  forever. 
But  you  will  obey  it,  my  daughter.  Your  old  ser- 
vant will  return  to  you  with  the  mules ;  my  com- 
panion is  gone  to  fetch  him ;  and  you  will  go  back 
to  Florence. " 

She  started  up  with  anger  in  her  eyes,  and  faced 
the  speaker.  It  was  Fra  Girolamo :  she  knew  that 
well  enough  before.  She  was  nearly  as  tall  as  he 
was,  and  their  faces  were  almost  on  a  level.  She 
had  started  up  with  defiant  words  ready  to  burst 
from  her  lips,  but  they  fell  back  again  without 
utterance.  She  had  met  Fra  Girolamo 's  calm 
glance,  and  the  impression  from  it  was  so  new  to 
her  that  her  anger  sank  ashamed  as  something 
irrelevant. 

There  was  nothing  transcendent  in  Savonarola's 
face.  It  was  not  beautiful.  It  was  strong-featured, 
and  owed  all  its  refinement  to  habits  of  mind  and 
rigid  discipline  of  the  body.  The  source  of  the 
impression  his  glance  produced  on  Eomola  was  the 
sense  it  conveyed  to  her  of  interest  in  her  and  care 
for  her  apart  from  any  personal  feeling.  It  was 
the  first  time  she  had  encountered  a  gaze  in  which 
simple  human  fellowship  expressed  itself  as  a 
strongly  felt  bond.  Such  a  glance  is  half  the  voca- 
tion of  the  priest  or  spiritual  guide  of  men,  and 
Eomola  felt  it  impossible  again  to  question  his 
authority  to  speak  to  her.  She  stood  silent,  look- 
ing at  him.     And  he  spoke  again. 

"  You  assert  your  freedom  proudly,  my  daughter. 
But  who  is  so  base  as  the  debtor  that  thinks  him- 
self free?" 


AN  ARRESTING  VOICE.  219 

There  was  a  sting  in  those  words,  and  Eomola's 
countenance  changed  as  if  a  subtle  pale  flash  had 
gone  over  it. 

"  And  you  are  flying  from  your  debts,  — the  debt 
of  a  Florentine  woman,  the  debt  of  a  wife.  You 
are  turning  your  back  on  the  lot  that  has  been  ap- 
pointed for  you ;  you  are  going  to  choose  another. 
But  can  man  or  woman  choose  duties  ?  No  more 
than  they  can  choose  their  birthplace  or  their 
father  and  mother.  My  daughter,  you  are  fleeing 
from  the  presence  of  God  into  the  wilderness.  " 

As  the  anger  melted  from  Eomola's  mind,  it  had 
given  place  to  a  new  presentiment  of  the  strength 
there  might  be  in  submission,  if  this  man,  at  whom 
she  was  beginning  to  look  with  a  vague  reverence, 
had  some  valid  law  to  show  her.  But  no  —  it  was 
impossible;  he  could  not  know  what  determined - 
her.  Yet  she  could  not  again  simply  refuse  to  be 
guided ;  she  was  constrained  to  plead ;  and  in  her 
new  need  to  be  reverent  while  she  resisted,  the 
title  which  she  had  never  given  him  before  came 
to  her  lips  without  forethought. 

"  My  father,  you  cannot  know  the  reasons  which 
compel  me  to  go.  None  can  know  them  but  my- 
self. None  can  judge  for  me.  I  have  been  driven 
by  great  sorrow.       I  am  resolved  to  go.  " 

"  I  know  enough,  my  daughter :  my  mind  has 
been  so  far  illuminated  concerning  you,  that  I 
know  enough.  You  are  not  happy  in  your  married 
life ;  but  I  am  not  a  confessor,  and  I  seek  to  know 
nothing  that  should  be  reserved  for  the  seal  of  con- 
fession. I  have  a  divine  warrant  to  stop  you, 
which  does  not  depend  on  such  knowledge.  You 
were  warned  by  a  message  from  heaven,  delivered 
in  my  presence, —  you  were  warned  before  marriage, 


220  ROMOLA. 

when  you  might  still  have  lawfully  chosen  to  be  free 
from  the  marriage-bond.  But  you  chose  the  bond  ; 
and  in  wilfully  breaking  it  —  I  speak  to  you  as  a 
pagan,  if  the  holy  mystery  of  matrimony  is  not 
sacred  to  you  —  you  are  breaking  a  pledge.  Of 
what  wrongs  will  you  complain,  my  daughter, 
when  you  yourself  are  committing  one  of  the  great- 
est wrongs  a  woman  and  a  citizen  can  be  guilty  of, 

—  withdrawing  in  secrecy  and  disguise  from  a 
pledge  which  you  have  given  in  the  face  of  God 
and  your  fellow-men  ?  Of  what  wrongs  will  you 
complain,  when  you  yourself  are  breaking  the  sim- 
plest law  that  lies  at  the  foundation  of  the  trust 
which  binds  man  to  man,  —  faithfulness  to  the 
spoken  word  ?  This,  then,  is  the  wisdom  you  have 
gained  by  scorning  the  mysteries  of  the  Church  ?  — 
not  to  see  the  bare  duty  of  integrity,  where  the 
Church  would  have  taught  you  to  see,  not  integrity 
only,  but  religion.  " 

The  blood  had  rushed  to  Eomola's  face,  and  she 
shrank  as  if  she  had  been  stricken.  "  I  would  not 
liave  put  on  a  disguise, "  she  began ;  but  she  could 
not  go  on,  —  she  was  too  much  shaken  by  the  sug- 
gestion in  the  Frate's  words  of  a  possible  affinity 
between  her  own  conduct  and  Tito's. 

"  And  to  break  that  pledge  you  fly  from  Florence, 

—  Florence,  where  there  are  the  only  men  and 
women  in  the  world  to  whom  you  owe  the  debt 
of  a  fellow-citizen.  " 

"  I  should  never  have  quitted  Florence, "  said 
Eomola,  tremulously,  "  as  long  as  there  was  any 
hope  of  my  fulfilling  a  duty  to  my  father  there. " 

"  And  do  you  own  no  tie  but  that  of  a  child  to 
her  father  in  the  flesh  ?  Your  life  has  been  spent 
in  blindness,  my  daughter.      You  have  lived  with 


AN  ARRESTING  YOICE.  221 

those  who  sit  on  a  hill  aloof,  and  look  down  on  the 
life  of  their  fellow-men.  I  know  their  vain  dis- 
course. It  is  of  what  has  been  in  the  times  which 
they  fill  with  their  own  fancied  wisdom,  while 
they  scorn  God's  work  in  the  present.  And  doubt- 
less you  were  taught  how  there  were  pagan  women 
who  felt  what  it  was  to  live  for  the  Republic ;  yet 
you  have  never  felt  that  you,  a  Florentine  woman, 
should  live  for  Florence.  If  your  own  people  are 
wearing  a  yoke,  will  you  slip  from  under  it,  in- 
stead of  struggling  with  them  to  lighten  it?  There 
is  hunger  and  misery  in  our  streets ;  yet  you  say, 
'  I  care  not ;  I  have  my  own  sorrows ;  I  will  go 
away,  if  peradventure  I  can  ease  them. '  The  ser- 
vants of  (jod  are  struggling  after  a  law  of  justice, 
peace,  and  charity,  that  the  hundred  thousand  citi- 
zens among  whom  you  were  born  may  be  governed 
righteously ;  but  you  think  no  more  of  this  than 
if  you  were  a  bird,  that  may  spread  its  wings  and 
Hy  whither  it  will  in  search  of  food  to  its  liking. 
And  yet  you  have  scorned  the  teaching  of  the 
Church,  my  daughter.  As  if  you,  a  wilful  wan- 
derer, following  your  own  blind  choice,  were  not 
below  the  humblest  Florentine  woman  who  stretches 
forth  her  hands  with  her  own  people,  and  craves  a 
blessing  for  them  ;  and  feels  a  close  sisterhood  with 
the  neighbour  who  kneels  beside  her  and  is  not  of 
her  own  blood ;  and  thinks  of  the  mighty  purr^'^se 
that  God  has  for  Florence  j  and  waits  and  endures 
because  the  promised  work  is  great,  and  she  feels 
herself  little." 

"  I  was  not  going  away  to  ease  and  self-indul- 
gence,"  said  Romola,  raising  her  head  again,  with 
a  prompting  to  vindicate  herself.  "  I  was  going 
away  to  hardship.  I  expect  no  joy :  it  is  gone 
from  my  life. " 


222  eo:mola. 

"  You  are  seeking  your  own  will,  my  daughter. 
You  are  seeking  some  good  other  than  the  law  you 
are  bound  to  obey.  But  how  will  you  find  good  ? 
It  is  not  a  thing  of  choice :  it  is  a  river  that  flows 
from  the  foot  of  the  Invisible  Throne,  and  flows  by 
the  path  of  obedience.  I  say  again,  man  cannot 
choose  his  duties.  You  may  choose  to  forsake  your 
duties,  and  choose  not  to  have  the  sorrow  they 
bring.  But  you  will  go  forth ;  and  what  will  you 
find,  my  daughter?  Sorrow  without  duty,  —  bitter 
herbs,  and  no  bread  with  them.  " 

"  But  if  you  knew, "  said  Eomola,  clasping  her 
hands  and  pressing  them  tight,  as  she  looked  plead- 
ingly at  Fra  Girolamo, —  "  if  you  knew  what  it  was 
to  me,  — how  impossible  it  seemed  to  me  to  bear 
it." 

"  My  daughter, "  he  said,  pointing  to  the  cord 
round  Eomola 's  neck,  "  you  carry  something  within 
your  mantle ;  draw  it  forth,  and  look  at  it.  " 

Eomola  gave  a  slight  start,  but  her  impulse  now 
was  to  do  just  what  Savonarola  told  her.  Her  self- 
doubt  was  grappled  by  a  stronger  will  and  a  stronger 
conviction  than  her  own.  She  drew  forth  the  cru- 
cifix.     Still  pointing  towards  it,  he  said,  — 

"  There,  my  daughter,  is  the  image  of  a  Supreme 
Offering,  made  by  Supreme  Love,  because  the  need 
of  man  was  great.  " 

He  paused,  and  she  held  the  crucifix  trembling, — 
trembling  under  a  sudden  impression  of  the  wide 
distance  between  her  present  and  her  past  self. 
"\Miat  a  length  of  road  she  had  travelled  through 
since  she  first  took  that  crucifix  from  the  Frate's 
hands !  Had  life  as  many  secrets  before  her  still 
as  it  had  for  her  then,  in  her  young  blindness  ? 
It  was  a  thought  that  helped  all  other  subduing 
influences ;   and  at  the  sound  of   Fra   Girolamo 's 


AN  ARRESTING  VOICE.  223 

voice  again,  Eomola,  with  a  quick  involuntary 
movement,  pressed  the  crucifix  against  her  man- 
tle and  looked  at  him  with  more  submission 
than  before. 

"  Conform  your  life  to  that  image,  my  daughter ; 
make  your  sorrow  an  offering :  and  when  the  fire  of 
Divine  charity  burns  within  you,  and  you  behold 
the  need  of  your  fellow-men  by  the  light  of  that 
flame,  you  will  not  call  your  offering  great.  You 
have  carried  yourself  proudly,  as  one  who  held  her- 
self not  of  common  blood  or  of  common  thoughts ; 
but  you  have  been  as  one  unborn  to  the  true  life  of 
man.  What !  you  say  your  love  for  your  father  no 
longer  tells  you  to  stay  in  Florence  ?  Then,  since  that 
tie  is  snapped,  you  are  without  a  law,  without  reli- 
gion :  you  are  no  better  than  a  beast  of  the  field 
when  she  is  robbed  of  her  young.  If  the  yearning 
of  a  fleshly  love  is  gone,  you  are  without  love, 
without  obligation.  See,  then,  my  daughter,  how 
you  are  below  the  life  of  the  believer  who  worships 
that  image  of  the  Supreme  Offering,  and  feels  the 
glow  of  a  common  life  with  the  lost  multitude  for 
whom  that  offering  was  made,  and  beholds  the  his- 
tory of  the  world  as  the  history  of  a  great  re- 
demption in  which  he  is  himself  a  fellow-worker, 
in  his  own  place  and  among  his  own  people !  If 
you  held  that  faith,  my  beloved  daughter,  you 
would  not  be  a  wanderer  flying  from  suffering,  and 
blindly  seeking  the  good  of  a  freedom  which  is 
lawlessness.  You  would  feel  that  Florence  was 
the  home  of  your  soul  as  well  as  your  birthplace, 
because  you  would  see  the  work  that  was  given  you 
to  do  there.  If  you  forsake  your  place,  who  will 
fill  it  ?  You  ought  to  be  in  your  place  now,  help- 
ing in  the  great  work  by  which  God  will  purify 


224  ROMOLA. 

Florence,  and  raise  it  to  be  the  guide  of  the  nations. 
What !  the  earth  is  full  of  iniquity,  full  of  groans, 
—  the  light  is  still  struggling  with  a  mighty  dark- 
ness, and  you  say,  '  I  cannot  bear  my  bonds ;  I  will 
burst  them  asunder ;  I  will  go  where  no  man  claims 
me  '  ?  My  daughter,  every  bond  of  your  life  is  a 
debt :  the  right  lies  in  the  payment  of  that  debt ;  it 
can  lie  nowhere  else.  In  vain  will  you  wander 
over  the  earth ;  you  will  be  wandering  forever  away 
from  the  right.  " 

Eomola  was  inwardly  struggling  with  strong 
forces, —  that  immense  personal  influence  of  Savona- 
rola, which  came  from  the  energy  of  his  emotions 
and  beliefs ;  and  her  consciousness,  surmounting 
all  prejudice,  that  his  words  implied  a  higher  law 
than  any  she  had  yet  obeyed.  But  the  resisting 
thoughts  were  not  yet  overborne. 

"  How,  then,  could  Dino  be  right  ?  He  broke 
ties ;  he  forsook  his  place. " 

"  That  was  a  special  vocation.  He  was  con- 
strained to  depart,  else  he  could  not  have  attained 
the  higher  life.  It  would  have  been  stifled  within 
him. " 

"  And  I  too, "  said  Eomola,  raising  her  hands  to 
her  brow,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  anguish,  as  if 
she  were  being  dragged  to  some  torture.  "  Father, 
you  may  be  wrong.  " 

"  Ask  your  conscience,  my  daughter.  You  have 
no  vocation  such  as  your  brother  had.  You  are  a 
wife.  You  seek  to  break  your  ties  in  self-will  and 
anger,  not  because  the  higher  life  calls  upon  you  to 
renounce  them.  The  higher  life  begins  for  us,  my 
daughter,  when  we  renounce  our  own  will  to  bow 
before  a  Divine  law.  That  seems  hard  to  you. 
It  is  the  portal  of  wisdom  and  freedom  and  bless- 


AN  ARKESTIXG  VOICE.  225 

edness.  And  the  symbol  of  it  hangs  before  you. 
That  wisdom  is  the  religion  of  the  Cross.  And  you 
stand  aloof  from  it :  you  are  a  pagan ;  you  have 
been  taught  to  say,  '  I  am  as  the  wise  men  who 
lived  before  the  time  when  the  Jew  of  Nazareth 
was  crucified. '  And  that  is  your  wisdom !  To  be 
as  the  dead  whose  eyes  are  closed,  and  whose  ear  is 
deaf  to  the  work  of  God  that  has  been  since  their 
time.  "What  has  your  dead  wisdom  done  for  you, 
my  daughter  ?  It  has  left  you  without  a  heart  for 
the  neighbours  among  whom  you  dwell,  without 
care  for  the  great  work  by  which  Florence  is  to  be 
regenerated  and  the  world  made  holy;  it  has  left 
you  without  a  share  in  the  Divine  life  which 
quenches  the  sense  of  suffering  Self  in  the  ardours 
of  an  ever-growing  love.  And  now,  when  the 
sword  has  pierced  your  soul,  you  say,  '  I  will  go 
away ;  I  cannot  bear  my  sorrow. '  And  you  think 
nothing  of  the  sorrow  and  the  wrong  that  are 
within  the  walls  of  the  city  where  you  dwell :  you 
would  leave  your  place  empty,  when  it  ought  to  be 
filled  with  your  pity  and  your  labour.  If  there  is 
wickedness  in  the  streets,  your  steps  should  shine 
with  the  light  of  purity ;  if  there  is  a  cry  of  an- 
guish, you,  my  daughter,  because  you  know  the 
meaning  of  the  cry,  should  be  there  to  still  it.  My 
beloved  daughter,  sorrow  has  come  to  teach  you  a 
new  worship  :  the  sign  of  it  hangs  before  you.  " 

Romola's  mind  was  still  torn  by  conflict.  She 
foresaw  that  she  should  obey  Savonarola  and  go 
back :  his  words  had  come  to  her  as  if  they  were 
an  interpretation  of  that  revulsion  from  self-satisfied 
ease,  and  of  that  new  fellowship  with  suffering, 
which  had  already  been  awakened  in  her.  His 
arresting  voice  had  brought  a  new  condition  into 

VOL.  II. — 15 


226  ROMOLA. 

her  life,  wliicli  made  it  seem  impossible  to  her  that 
she  could  go  on  her  way  as  if  she  had  not  heard  it ; 
yet  she  shrank  as  one  who  sees  the  path  she  must 
take,  but  sees,  too,  that  the  hot  lava  lies  there. 
And  the  instinctive  shrinking  from  a  return  to  her 
husband  brought  doubts.  She  turned  away  her 
eyes  from  Fra  Girolamo,  and  stood  for  a  minute  or 
two  with  her  hands  hanging  clasped  before  her, 
like  a  statue.  At  last  she  spoke,  as  if  the  words 
were  being  wrung  from  her,  still  looking  on  the 
ground. 

"  My  husband  ...  he  is  not  .  .  .  my  love  is 
gone !  " 

"  My  daughter,  there  is  the  bond  of  a  higher  love. 
Marriage  is  not  carnal  only,  made  for  selfish  de- 
light. See  what  that  thought  leads  you  to !  It  leads 
you  to  wander  away  in  a  false  garb  from  all  the 
obligations  of  your  place  and  name.  That  would 
not  have  been,  if  you  had  learned  that  it  is  a  sacra- 
mental vow,  from  which  none  but  God  can  release 
you.  My  daughter,  your  life  is  not  as  a  grain  of 
sand,  to  be  blown  by  the  winds ;  it  is  a  thing  of 
flesh  and  blood,  that  dies  if  it  be  sundered.  Your 
husband  is  not  a  malefactor  ?  " 

Romola  started.  "  Heaven  forbid  !  No  ;  I  accuse 
him  of  nothing.  " 

"  I  did  not  suppose  he  was  a  malefactor.  I 
meant  that  if  he  were  a  malefactor,  your  place 
would  be  in  the  prison  beside  him.  My  daughter, 
if  the  cross  comes  to  you  as  a  wife,  you  must  carry 
it  as  a  wife.  You  may  say,  '  I  will  forsake  my 
husband, '  but  you  cannot  cease  to  be  a  wife. " 

"  Yet  if  —  oh,  how  could  I  bear  —  "  Romola  had 
involuntarily  begun  to  say  something  which  she 
sought  to  banish  from  her  mind  again. 


AN  ARRESTING  VOICE.  227 

"  Make  your  marriage-sorrows  an  offering  too, 
my  daughter:  an  offering  to  the  great  work  by 
which  sin  and  soitow  are  being  made  to  cease. 
The  end  is  sure,  and  is  already  beginning.  Here 
in  Florence  it  is  beginning,  and  the  eyes  of  faith 
behold  it.  And  it  may  be  our  blessedness  to  die 
for  it :  to  die  daily  by  the  crucifixion  of  our  selfish 
will,  —  to  die  at  last  by  laying  our  bodies  on  the 
altar.  My  daughter,  you  are  a  child  of  Florence ; 
fulfil  the  duties  of  that  great  inheritance.  Live  for 
Florence,  —  for  your  own  people,  wliom  God  is  pre- 
paring to  bless  the  earth.  Bear  the  anguish  and 
the  smart.  The  iron  i?  sharp  —  I  know,  I  know  — 
it  rends  the  tender  flesh.  The  draught  is  bitter- 
ness on  the  lips.  But  there  is  rapture  in  the  cup, — 
there  is  the  vision  which  makes  all  life  below  it 
dross  forever.  Come,  my  daughter,  come  back  to 
your  place !  " 

While  Savonarola  spoke  with  growing  intensity, 
his  arms  tightly  folded  before  him  still,  as  they 
had  been  from  the  first,  but  his  face  alight  as  from 
an  inward  flame,  Komola  felt  herself  surrounded 
and  possessed  by  the  glow  of  his  passionate  faith. 
The  chill  doubts  all  melted  away ;  she  was  subdued 
by  the  sense  of  something  unspeakably  great  to 
which  she  was  being  called  by  a  strong  being  who 
roused  a  new  strength  within  herself.  In  a  voice 
that  was  like  a  low,  prayerful  cry,  she  said,  — 

"  Father,  I  will  be  guided.  Teach  me !  I  will 
go  back. " 

Almost  unconsciously  she  sank  on  her  knees. 
Savonarola  stretched  out  his  hands  over  her;  but 
feeling  would  no  longer  pass  through  the  channel 
of  speech,  and  he  was  silent. 


CHAPTEE  XXL 

COMING    BACK. 

"  ElSE,  my  daughter, "  said  Era  Girolamo,  at  last. 
"  Your  servant  is  waiting  not  far  off  with  the  mules. 
It  is  time  that  I  should  go  onward  to  Florence,  " 

Eomola  arose  from  her  knees.  That  silent  atti- 
tude had  been  a  sort  of  sacrament  to  her,  confirming 
the  state  of  yearning  passivity  on  which  she  had 
newly  entered.  By  the  one  act  of  renouncing  her 
resolve  to  quit  her  husband,  her  will  seemed  so 
utterly  bruised  that  she  felt  the  need  of  direction 
even  in  small  things.  She  lifted  up  the  edge  of  her 
cowl,  and  saw  Maso  and  the  second  Dominican 
standing  with  their  backs  towards  her  on  the  edge 
of  the  hill  about  ten  yards  from  her;  but  she 
looked  at  Savonarola  again  without  speaking,  as 
if  the  order  to  Maso  to  turn  back  must  come  from 
him  and  not  from  her. 

"  I  will  go  and  call  them, "  he  said,  answering  her 
glance  of  appeal ;  "  and  I  will  recommend  you,  my 
daughter,  to  the  Brother  who  is  with  me.  You 
desire  to  put  yourself  under  guidance,  and  to  learn 
that  wisdom  which  has  been  hitherto  as  foolishness 
to  you.  A  chief  gate  of  that  wisdom  is  the  sacra- 
ment of  confession.  You  will  need  a  confessor, 
my  daughter,  and  I  desire  to  put  you  under  the 
care  of  Fra  Salvestro,  one  of  the  brethren  of  San 
Marco,  in  whom  I  most  confide.  " 


COMING  BACK.  229 

"  I  would  rather  have  no  guidance  but  yours, 
father, "  said  Romola,   looking  anxious. 

"  My  daughter,  I  do  not  act  as  a  confessor.  The 
vocation  I  have  withdraws  me  from  offices  that 
would  force  me  into  frequent  contact  with  the  laity, 
and  interfere  with  my  special  duties.  " 

"  Then  shall  I  not  be  able  to  speak  to  you  in 
private  ?  if  I  waver,  if  —  "  Eomola  broke  off  from 
rising  agitation.  She  felt  a  sudden  alarm  lest 
her  new  strength  in  renunciation,  should  vanish 
if  the  immediate  personal  influence  of  Savonarola 
vanished. 

"  My  daughter,  if  your  soul  has  need  of  the  word 
in  private  from  my  lips,  you  will  let  me  know  it 
through  Fra  Salvestro,  and  I  will  see  you  in  the 
sacristy  or  in  the  choir  of  San  Marco.  And  I  will 
not  cease  to  watch  over  you.  I  will  instruct  ray 
brother  concerning  you,  that  he  may  guide  you  into 
that  path  of  labour  for  the  suffering  and  the  hun- 
gry to  which  you  are  called  as  a  daughter  of  Flor- 
ence in  these  times  of  hard  need.  I  desire  to 
behold  you  among  the  feebler  and  more  ignorant 
sisters  as  the  apple-tree  among  the  trees  of  the 
forest,  so  that  your  fairness  and  all  natural  gifts 
may  be  but  as  a  lamp  through  which  the  Divine 
light  shines  the  more  purely.  I  will  go  now  and 
call  your  servant. " 

When  Maso  had  been  sent  a  little  way  in  ad- 
vance, Fra  Salvestro  came  forward,  and  Savonarola 
led  Itomola  towards  him.  She  had  beforehand  felt 
an  inward  shrinking  from  a  new  guide  who  was  a 
total  stranger  to  her ;  but  to  have  resisted  Savona- 
rola's advice  would  have  been  to  assume  an  attitude 
of  independence  at  a  moment  when  all  her  strength 
must  be  drawn  from  the  renunciation  of  indepeu- 


230  ROMOLA. 

dence.  And  the  whole  bent  of  her  mind  now  was 
towards  doing  what  was  painful  rather  than  what 
was  easy.  She  bowed  reverently  to  Fra  Salvestro 
before  looking  directly  at  him  ;  but  when  she  raised 
her  head  and  saw  him  fully,  her  reluctance  became 
a  palpitating  doubt.  There  are  men  whose  presence 
infuses  trust  and  reverence ;  there  are  others  to 
whom  we  have  need  to  carry  our  trust  and  rever- 
ence read3''-made ;  and  that  difference  flashed  on 
Eomola  as  she  ceased  to  have  Savonarola  before  her, 
and  saw  in  his  stead  Fra  Salvestro  Marulfi.  It  was 
not  that  there  was  anything  manifestly  repulsive 
in  Fra  Salvestro 's  face  and  manner,  any  air  of 
hypocrisy,  any  tinge  of  coarseness;  his  face  was 
handsomer  than  Fra  Girolamo's,  his  person  a  little 
taller.  He  was  the  long- accepted  confessor  of  many 
among  the  chief  personages  in  Florence,  and  had 
therefore  had  large  experience  as  a  spiritual  direc- 
tor. But  his  face  had  the  vacillating  expression  of 
a  mind  unable  to  concentrate  itself  strongly  in  the 
channel  of  one  great  emotion  or  belief, —  an  expres- 
sion which  is  fatal  to  influence  over  an  ardent  na- 
ture like  Eomola's.  Such  an  expression  is  not  the 
stamp  of  insincerity ;  it  is  the  stamp  simply  of  a 
shallow  soul,  which  will  often  be  found  sincerely 
striving  to  fill  a  high  vocation,  sincerely  composing 
its  countenance  to  the  utterance  of  sublime  formulas, 
but  finding  the  muscles  twitch  or  relax  in  spite  of 
belief,  as  prose  insists  on  coming  instead  of  poetry 
to  the  man  who  has  not  the  divine  frenzy.  Fra 
Salvestro  had  a  peculiar  liability  to  visions,  de- 
pendent apparently  on  a  constitution  given  to 
somnambulism.  Savonarola  believed  in  the  su- 
pernatural character  of  these  visions,  while  Fra 
Salvestro  himself  had  originally  resisted  such  an 


COMING  BACK.  231 

interpretation  of  them,  and  had  even  rebuked 
Savonarola  for  his  prophetic  preaching,  —  another 
proof,  if  one  were  wanted,  that  the  relative  great- 
ness of  men  is  not  to  be  gauged  by  their  tendency 
to  disbelieve  the  superstitions  of  their  age ;  for  of 
these  two  there  can  be  no  question  which  was  the 
great  man  and  which  the  small. 

The  difference  between  them  was  measured  very 
accurately  by  the  change  in  Eomola's  feeling  as 
Fra  Salvestro  began  to  address  her  in  words  of  ex- 
hortation and  encouragement.  After  her  first  angry 
resistance  of  Savonarola  had  passed  away,  she  had 
lost  all  remembrance  of  the  old  dread  lest  any  influ- 
ence should  drag  her  within  the  circle  of  fanaticism 
and  sour  monkish  piety.  But  now  again,  the  chill 
breath  of  that  dread  stole  over  her.  It  could  have 
no  decisive  effect  against  the  impetus  her  mind  had 
just  received ;  it  was  only  like  the  closing  of  the 
gray  clouds  over  the  sunrise,  which  made  her  re- 
turning path  monotonous  and  sombre. 

And  perhaps  of  all  sombre  paths  that  on  which 
we  go  back  after  treading  it  with  a  strong  resolu- 
tion is  the  one  that  most  severely  tests  the  fervour 
of  renunciation.  As  they  re-entered  the  city  gates, 
the  light  snow-flakes  fell  about  them ;  and  as  the 
gray  sister  walked  hastily  homeward  from  the 
Piazza  di  San  Marco,  and  trod  the  bridge  again,  and 
turned  in  at  the  large  door  in  the  Via  de'  Bardi, 
her  footsteps  were  marked  darkly  on  the  thin  carpet 
of  snow,  and  her  cowl  fell  laden  and  damp  about 
her  face. 

She  went  up  to  her  room,  threw  off  her  serge, 
destroyed  the  parting  letters,  replaced  all  her  pre- 
cious trifles,  unbound  her  hair,  and  put  on  her 
usual  black  dress.      Instead  of  taking  a  loncj  excit- 


232  ROMOLA. 

ing  jouruey,  she  was  to  sit  down  in  her  usual  place. 
The  snow  fell  against  the  windows,  and  she  was 
alone. 

She  felt  the  dreariness,  yet  her  courage  was 
high,  like  that  of  a  seeker  who  has  come  on  new 
signs  of  gold.  She  was  going  to  thread  life  by  a 
fresh  clew.  She  had  thrown  all  the  energy  of  her 
will  into  renunciation.  The  empty  tabernacle  re- 
mained locked,  and  she  placed  Dino's  'crucifix 
outside  it. 

Nothing  broke  the  outward  monotony  of  her  soli- 
tary home,  till  the  night  came  like  a  white  ghost 
at  the  windows.  Yet  it  was  the  most  memorable 
Christmas-eve  in  her  life  to  Romola,  this  of  1494. 


BOOK  III. 
CHAPTER  XXII. 

ROMOLA    IN    HER   PLACE. 

It  was  the  30th  of  October,  1496.  The  sky  that 
morniug  was  clear  enough,  and  there  was  a  pleas- 
ant autumnal  breeze.  But  the  Florentines  just 
then  thought  very  little  about  the  land  breezes : 
they  were  thinking  of  the  gales  at  sea,  which 
seemed  to  be  uniting  with  all  other  powers  to  dis- 
prove the  Frate's  declaration  that  Heaven  took 
special  care. of  Florence. 

For  those  terrible  gales  had  driven  away  from 
the  coast  of  Leghorn  certain  ships  from  Marseilles, 
freighted  with  soldiery  and  corn  ;  and  Florence  was 
in  the  direst  need,  first  of  food,  and  secondly  of 
fighting  men.  Pale  Famine  was  in  her  streets, 
and  her  territory  was  threatened  on  all  its  borders. 

For  the  French  king,  that  new  Charlemagne,  wlio 
had  entered  Italy  in  anticipatory  triumph,  and  had 
conquered  Naples  without  the  least  trouble,  had 
gone  away  again  fifteen  months  ago,  and  was  even, 
it  is  feared  in  his  grief  for  the  loss  of  a  new-born 
son,  losing  the  languid  intention  of  coming  back 
again  to  redress  grievances  and  set  the  Church  in 
order.  A  league  had  been  formed  against  him  —  a 
Holy  League,  with  Pope   Borgia  at  its  head  —  to 


234  ROMOLA. 

"  drive  out  the  barlDarians, "  who  still  garrisoned 
the  fortress  of  Naples.  That  had  a  patriotic  sound  ; 
but,  looked  at  more  closely,  the  Holy  League  seemed 
very  much  like  an  agreement  among  certain  wolves 
to  drive  away  all  other  wolves,  and  then  to  see 
which  among  themselves  could  snatch  the  largest 
share  of  the  prey.  And  there  was  a  general  dispo- 
sition to  regard  Florence  not  as  a  fellow- wolf,  but 
rather  as  a  desirable  carcass.  Florence,  the"refore, 
of  all  the  chief  Italian  States,  had  alone  declined 
to  join  the  League,  adhering  still  to  the  French 
alliance. 

She  had  declined  at  her  peril.  At  this  moment 
Pisa,  still  fighting  savagely  for  liberty,  was  being 
encouraged  not  only  by  strong  forces  from  Venice 
and  Milan,  but  by  the  presence  of  the  German 
Emperor  Maximilian,  who  had  been  invited  by  the 
League,  and  was  joining  the  Pisans  with  such 
troops  as  he  had  in  the  attempt  to  get  possession 
of  Leghorn,  while  the  coast  was  invested  by  Vene- 
tian and  Genoese  ships.  And  if  Leghorn  should 
fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  woe  to  Florence ! 
For  if  that  one  outlet  towards  the  sea  were  closed, 
hedged  in  as  she  was  on  the  land  by  the  bitter  ill- 
will  of  the  Pope  and  the  jealousy  of  smaller  States, 
how  could  succours  reach  her  ? 

The  government  of  Florence  had  shown  a  great 
heart  in  this  urgent  need,  meeting  losses  and  de- 
feats with  vigorous  efforts,  raising  fresh  money, 
raising  fresh  soldiers,  but  not  neglecting  the  good 
old  method  of  Italian  defence,  — conciliatory  em- 
bassies. And  while  the  scarcity  of  food  was  every 
day  becoming  greater,  they  had  resolved,  in  oppo- 
sition to  old  precedent,  not  to  shut  out  the  starv- 
ing   country   people,    and   the  mendicants    driven 


ROMOLA  IN  UER  PLACE.  235 

from  the  gates  of  other  cities,  who  came  flocking 
to  Florence  like  birds  from  a  land  of  snow. 

These  acts  of  a  government  in  which  the  disci- 
ples of  Savonarola  made  the  strongest  element  were 
not  allowed  to  pass  without  criticism.  The  dis- 
affected were  plentiful,  and  they  saw  clearly  that 
the  government  took  the  worst  course  for  the  pub- 
lic welfare.  Florence  ought  to  join  the  League 
and  make  common  cause  with  the  other  great 
Italian  States,  instead  of  drawing  down  their  hos- 
tility by  a  futile  adherence  to  a  foreign  ally. 
Florence  ought  to  take  care  of  her  own  citizens, 
instead  of  opening  her  gates  to  famine  and  pesti- 
lence in  the  shape  of  starving  contadini  and  alien 
mendicants. 

Every  day  the  distress  became  sharper :  every 
day  the  murmurs  became  louder.  And,  to  crown 
the  difficulties  of  the  government,  for  a  mouth  and 
more,  —  in  obedience  to  a  mandate  from  Eome,  — 
Fra  Girolamo  had  ceased  to  preach.  But  on  the 
arrival  of  the  terrible  news  that  the  ships  from 
Marseilles  had  been  driven  back,  and  that  no  corn 
was  coming,  the  need  for  the  voice  that  could  in- 
fuse faith  and  patience  into  the  people  became  too 
imperative  to  be  resisted.  In  defiance  of  the  Papal 
mandate  the  Signoria  requested  Savonarola  to 
preach.  And  two  days  ago  he  had  mounted  again 
the  pulpit  of  the  Duomo,  and  had  told  the  people 
only  to  wait  and  be  steadfast  and  the  Divine  help 
would  certainly  come. 

It  was  a  bold  sermon :  he  consented  to  have  his 
frock  stripped  off  him  if,  when  Florence  persevered 
in  fulfilling  the  duties  of  piety  and  citizenship, 
God  did  not  come  to  her  rescue. 

Yet  at  present,   on    this   morning  of  the  30th, 


22,6  ROMOLA. 

there  were  no  signs  of  rescue.  Perhaps  if  the  pre- 
cious Tabernacle  of  the  Madonna  dell'  Impruneta 
were  brought  into  Florence  and  carried  in  devout 
procession  to  the  Duomo,  that  Mother,  rich  in 
sorrows  and  therefore  in  mercy,  would  plead  for 
the  suffering  city  ?  For  a  century  and  a  half  there 
were  records  how  the  Florentines,  suffering  from 
drought,  or  flood,  or  famine,  or  pestilence,  or  the 
threat  of  wars,  had  fetched  the  potent  image  within 
their  walls,  and  had  found  deliverance.  And  grate- 
ful honour  had  been  done  to  her  and  her  ancient 
church  of  L 'Impruneta  ;  the  high  house  of  Buondel- 
monti,  patrons  of  the  church,  had  to  guard  her  hid- 
den image  with  bare  sword ;  wealth  had  been  poured 
out  for  prayers  at  her  shrine,  for  chantings  and 
chapels  and  ever-burning  lights ;  and  lands  had 
been  added,  till  there  was  much  quarrelling  for 
the  privilege  of  serving  her.  The  Florentines 
were  deeply  convinced  of  her  graciousness  to  them, 
so  that  the  sight  of  her  tabernacle  within  their 
walls  was  like  the  parting  of  the  cloud,  and  the 
proverb  ran,  that  the  Florentines  had  a  Madonna 
who  would  do  what  they  pleased. 

When  were  they  in  more  need  of  her  pleading 
pity  than  now  ?  And  already,  the  evening  before, 
the  tabernacle  containing  the  miraculous  hidden 
image  had  been  brought  with  high  and  reverend 
escort  from  L'Impruneta,  the  privileged  spot  six 
miles  beyond  the  gate  of  San  Piero  that  looks 
towards  Piome,  and  had  been  deposited  in  the 
church  of  San  Gaggio,  outside  the  gate,  whence  it 
was  to  be  fetched  in  solemn  procession  by  all  the 
fraternities,  trades,  and  authorities  of  Florence. 

But  the  Pitying  Mother  had  not  yet  entered 
within    the    walls,    and    the    morning    arose    on 


OF  THE 


ROMOLA  IN   HER  PLACE.  237 

unchanged  misery  and  despondenc3^  Pestilence 
was  hovering  in  the  track  of  famine.  Not  only 
the  hospitals  were  full,  but  the  courtyards  of  pri- 
vate houses  had  been  turned  into  refuges  and  in- 
firmaries ;  and  still  there  was  unsheltered  want. 
And  early  this  morning,  as  usual,  members  of  the 
various  fraternities  who  made  it  part  of  their  duty 
to  bury  the  unfriended  dead,  were  bearing  away  the 
corpses  that  had  sunk  by  the  wayside.  As  usual, 
sweet  womanly  forms,  with  the  refined  air  and 
carriage  of  the  well  born,  but  in  the  plainest  garb, 
were  moving  about  the  streets  on  their  daily  er- 
rands of  tending  the  sick  and  relieving  the  hungry. 

One  of  these  forms  was  easily  distinguishable  as 
Romola  de'  Bardi.  Clad  in  the  simplest  garment 
of  black  serge,  with  a  plain  piece  of  black  drapery 
drawn  over  her  head,  so  as  to  hide  all  her  hair, 
except  the  bands  of  gold  that  rippled  apart  on  her 
brow,  she  was  advancing  from  the  Ponte  Vecchio 
towards  the  Por'  Santa  Maria,  —  the  street  in  a 
direct  line  with  the  bridge,  —  when  she  found  her 
way  obstructed  by  the  pausing  of  a  bier,  which 
was  being  carried  by  members  of  the  company  of 
San  Jacopo  del  Popolo,  in  search  for  the  unburied 
dead.  The  brethren  at  the  head  of  the  bier  were 
stooping  to  examine  something,  while  a  group  of 
idle  workmen,  with  features  paled  and  sharpened 
by  hunger,  were  clustering  around  and  all  talking 
at  once. 

"  He  's  dead,  I  tell  you !  Messer  Domeneddio 
has  loved  him  well  enough  to  take  him. " 

"  Ah,  and  it  would  be  well  for  us  all  if  we  could 
have  our  legs  stretched  out  and  go  with  our  heads 
two  or  three  hracci  foremost !  It 's  ill  standing 
upright  with  hunger  to  prop  you. " 


238  ROMOLA. 

"  Well,  well,  he  's  an  old  fellow.  Death  has 
got  a  poor  bargain.      Life  's  had  the  best  of  him.  " 

"  And  no  Florentine,  ten  to  one !  A  beggar 
turned  out  of  Siena.  San  Giovanni  defend  us ! 
They  've  no  need  of  soldiers  to  fight  us.  They 
send  us  an  army  of  starving  men. " 

"  No,  no !  This  man  is  one  of  the  prisoners 
turned  out  of  the  Stinche.  I  know  by  the  gray 
patch  where  the  prison  badge  was.  " 

"Keep  quiet!  Lend  a  hand!  Don't  you  see 
the  brethren  are  going  to  lift  him  on  the  bier?  " 

"  It 's  likely  he  's  alive  enough  if  he  could  only 
look  it.  The  soul  may  be  inside  him  if  it  had 
only  a  drop  of  vernaccia  to  warm  it. " 

"  In  truth,  I  think  he  is  not  dead, "  said  one  of 
the  brethren,  when  they  had  lifted  him  on  the  bier. 
"  He  has  perhaps  only  sunk  down  for  want  of  food.  " 

"  Let  me  try  to  give  him  some  wine, "  said 
Eomola,  coming  forward.  She  loosened  the  small 
fiask  which  she  carried  at  her  belt,  and,  leaning 
towards  the  prostrate  body,  with  a  deft  hand  she 
applied  a  small  ivory  implement  between  the  teeth, 
and  poured  into  the  mouth  a  few  drops  of  wine. 
The  stimulus  acted :  the  wine  was  evidently  swal- 
lowed. She  poured  more,  till  the  head  was  moved 
a  little  towards  her,  and  the  eyes  of  the  old  man 
opened  full  upon  her  with  the  vague  look  of  return- 
ing consciousness. 

Then  for  the  first  time  a  sense  of  complete  recog- 
nition came  over  Eomola.  Those  wild  dark  eyes 
opening  in  the  sallow  deep-lined  face,  with  the 
white  beard,  which  was  now  long  again,  were  like 
an  unmistakable  signature  to  a  remembered  hand- 
writing. The  light  of  two  summers  had  not  made 
that  image  any  fainter  in  Eomola 's  memory:  the 


ROMOLA  IN   EER  PLACE.  239 

image  of  the  escaped  prisoner,  whom  she  had  seen 
in  the  Duomo  the  day  when  Tito  first  wore  the 
armour, — at  whose  grasp  Tito  was  paled  with 
terror  in  the  strange  sketch  she  had  seen  in  Piero's 
studio.  A  wretched  tremor  and  palpitation  seized 
her.  Now  at  last,  perhaps,  she  was  going  to  know 
some  secret  which  might  he  more  bitter  than  all 
that  had  gone  before.  She  felt  an  impulse  to  dart 
away  as  from  a  sight  of  horror;  and  again,  a  more 
imperious  need  to  keep  close  by  the  side  of  this 
old  man,  whom,  the  divination  of  keen  feeling  told 
her,  her  husband  had  injured.  In  the  very  instant 
of  this  conflict  slie  still  leaned  towards  him  and 
kept  her  right  hand  ready  to  administer  more  wine, 
while  her  left  was  passed  under  his  neck.  Her 
hands  trembled,  but  their  habit  of  soothing  help- 
fulness would  have  served  to  guide  them  without 
the  direction  of  her  thought. 

Baldassarre  was  looking  at  her  for  the  first  time. 
The  close  seclusion  in  which  Romola's  trouble  had 
kept  her  in  the  weeks  preceding  her  flight  and  his 
arrest  had  denied  him  the  opportunity  he  had 
sought  of  seeing  the  Wife  who  lived  in  the  Via  de' 
Bardi ;  and  at  this  moment  the  descriptions  he  had 
heard  of  the  fair  golden-haired  woman  were  all 
gone,   like  yesterday's  waves. 

"  Will  it  not  be  well  to  carry  him  to  the  steps 
of  San  Stefano  ?  "  said  Eomola.  "  We  shall  cease 
then  to  stop  up  the  street,  and  you  can  go  on  your 
way  with  your  bier.  " 

They  had  only  to  move  onward  for  about  thirty 
yards  before  reaching  the  steps  of  San  Stefano ;  and 
by  this  time  Baldassarre  was  able  himself  to  make 
some  efforts  towards  getting  off  the  bier,  and  prop- 
ping himself  on  the  steps  against  the  church  door- 


240  E.OMOLA. 

way.  The  charitable  brethren  passed  on ;  but  the 
group  of  interested  spectators,  who  had  nothing  to 
do  and  much  to  say,  had  considerably  increased. 
The  feeling  towards  the  old  man  was  not  so  en- 
tirely friendly  now  it  was  quite  certain  that 
he  was  alive,  but  the  respect  inspired  by  Romola's 
presence  caused  the  passing  remarks  to  be  made  in 
a  rather  more  subdued  tone  than  before. 

"  Ah,  they  gave  him  his  morsel  every  day  in  the 
Stinche,  — that 's  why  he  can't  do  so  well  without 
it.  You  and  I,  Cecco,  know  better  what,  it  is  to 
go  to  bed  fasting. " 

"  Gnaffe !  that  's  why  the  Magnificent  Eight 
have  turned  out  some  of  the  prisoners,  that  they 
may  shelter  honest  people  instead.  But  if  every 
thief  is  to  be  brought  to  life  with  good  wine  and 
wheaten  bread,  we  Ciompi  had  better  go  and  fill 
ourselves  in  Arno  while  the  water  's  plenty. " 

Eomola  had  seated  herself  on  the  steps  by  Bal- 
dassarre,  and  was  saying,  "  Can  you  eat  a  little 
bread  now  ?  perhaps  by-and-by  you  will  be  able,  if 
I  leave  it  with  you.  I  must  go  on,  because  I  have 
promised  to  be  at  the  hospital.  But  I  will  come 
back,  if  you  will  wait  here,  and  then  I  will  take 
you  to  some  shelter.  Do  you  understand  ?  Will 
you  wait  ?     I  will  come  back. " 

He  looked  dreamily  at  her,  and  repeated  her 
words,  "  come  back.  "  It  was  no  wonder  that  his 
mind  was  enfeebled  by  his  bodily  exhaustion,  but 
she  hoped  that  he  apprehended  her  meaning.  She 
opened  her  basket,  which  was  filled  with  pieces  of 
soft  bread,  and  put  one  of  the  pieces  into  his 
hand. 

"  Do  you  keep  your  bread  for  those  that  can't 
swallow,  madonna  ?  "  said  a  rough-looking  fellow. 


ROMOLA  IN  HER  PLACE.  241 

in  a  red  nightcap,  who  had  elbowed  his  way  into 
the  inmost  circle  of  spectators,  —  a  circle  that  was 
pressing  rather  closely  on  Komola. 

"If  anybody  isn't  hungry,"  said  another,  "I 
say,  let  him  alone.  He  's  better  off  than  people 
who  've  got  craving  stomachs  and  no  breakfast.  " 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  if  a  man  's  a  mind  to  die,  it  'a 
a  time  to  encourage  him,  instead  of  making  him 
come  back  to  life  against  his  will.  Dead  men 
want  no  trencher.  " 

"  Oh,  you  don't  understand  the  Frate's  charity," 
said  a  young  man  in  an  excellent  cloth  tunic, 
whose  face  showed  no  signs  of  want.  "  Tlie  Frate 
has  been  preaching  to  the  birds,  like  Saint  An- 
thony, and  he  's  been  telling  the  hawks  they  were 
made  to  feed  the  sparrows,  as  every  good  Florentine 
citizen  was  made  to  feed  six  starving  beggarmen 
from  Arezzo  or  Bologna.  Madonna,  there,  is  a 
pious  Piagnone ;  she  's  not  going  to  throw  away  her 
good  bread  on  honest  citizens  who  've  got  all  the 
Frate's  prophecies  to  swallow.  " 

"  Come,  madonna, "  said  he  of  the  red  cap,  "  the 
old  thief  doesn't  eat  the  bread,  you  see;  you'd 
better  try  us.  "VVe  fast  so  much,  we  're  half  saints 
already. " 

The  circle  had  narrowed  till  the  coarse  men  — 
most  of  them  gaunt  from  privation  —  had  left 
hardly  any  margin  round  Eomola.  She  had  been 
taking  from  her  basket  a  small  horn-cup,  into 
which  she  put  the  piece  of  bread  and  just  moist- 
ened it  with  wine ;  and  hitherto  she  had  not  ap- 
peared to  heed  them.  But  now  she  rose  to  her 
feet,  and  looked  round  at  them.  Instinctively  the 
men  who  were  nearest  to  her  pushed  backward  a 
little,  as  if  their  rude  nearness  were  the  fault  of 

VOL.  II. — 16 


242  ROMOLA. 

those  behind.  Eomola  held  out  the  basket  of  bread 
to  the  man  in  the  nightcap,  looking  at  him  without 
any  reproach  in  her  glance,  as  she  said,  — 

"  Hunger  is  hard  to  bear,  I  know,  and  you  have 
the  power  to  take  this  bread  if  you  will.  It  was 
saved  for  sick  women  and  children.  You  are 
strong  men ;  but  if  you  do  not  choose  to  suffer  be- 
cause you  are  strong,  you  have  the  power  to  take 
everything  from  the  weak.  You  can  take  the 
bread  from  this  basket ;  but  I  shall  watch  by  this 
old  man ;  I  shall  resist  your  taking  the  bread  from 
him.  " 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  perfect  silence, 
while  Eomola  looked  at  the  faces  before  her,  and 
held  out  the  basket  of  bread.  Her  own  pale  face 
had  the  slightly  pinched  look  and  the  deepening  of 
the  eye-socket  which  indicate  unusual  fasting  in 
the  habitually  temperate,  and  the  large  direct  gaze 
of  her  hazel  eyes  was  all  the  more  impressive. 

The  man  in  the  nightcap  looked  rather  silly, 
and  backed,  thrusting  his  elbow  into  his  neigh- 
bour's ribs  with  an  air  of  moral  rebuke.  The 
backing  was  general,  every  one  wishing  to  imply 
that  he  had  been  pushed  forward  against  his  will ; 
and  the  young  man  in  the  fine  cloth  tunic  had 
disappeared. 

But  at  this  moment  the  armed  servitors  of  the 
Signoria,  who  had  begun  to  patrol  the  line  of 
streets  through  which  the  procession  was  to  pass, 
came  up  to  disperse  the  group  which  was  obstruct- 
ing the  narrow  street.  The  man  addressed  as  Cecco 
retreated  from  a  threatening  mace  up  the  church 
steps,  and  said  to  Eomola,  in  a  respectful  tone,  — 

"  Madonna,  if  you  want  to  go  on  your  errands, 
I  '11  take  care  of  the  old  man. " 


ROMOLA  IN  HER  PLACE.  243 

Cecco  was  a  wild-looking  figure :  a  very  ragged 
tunic,  made  shaggy  and  variegated  by  cloth-dust 
and  clinging  fragments  of  wool,  gave  relief  to  a 
pair  of  bare  bony  arms  and  a  long  sinewy  neck  ;  his 
square  jaw  shaded  by  a  bristly  black  beard,  his 
bridgeless  nose  and  low  forehead,  made  his  face 
look  as  if  it  had  been  crushed  down  for  purposes 
of  packing,  and  a  narrow  piece  of  red  rag  tied  over 
his  ears  seemed  to  assist  in  the  compression. 
Romola  looked  at  him  with  some  hesitation. 

"  Don't  distrust  me,  madonna,"  said  Cecco,  who 
understood  her  look  perfectly ;  "  I  am  not  so  pretty 
as  you,  but  I  've  got  an  old  mother  who  eats  my 
porridge  for  me.  What!  there's  a  heart  inside 
me,  and  I  've  bought  a  candle  for  the  most  Holy 
Virgin  before  now.  Besides,  see  there,  the  old 
fellow  is  eating  his  sop.  He  's  hale  enough :  he  '11 
be  on  his  legs  as  well  as  the  best  of  us  by-and-by.  " 

"  Thank  you  for  offering  to  take  care  of  him, 
friend,"  said  Eomola,  rather  penitent  for  her 
doubting  glance.  Then  leaning  to  Baldassarre, 
she  said,  "  Pray  wait  for  me  till  I  come  again. " 

He  assented  with  a  slight  movement  of  the  head 
and  hand ;  and  Romola  went  on  her  way  towards 
the  hospital  of  San  Matteo,  in  the  Piazza  di  San 
Marco. 


CHAPTEE   XXIIL 

THE  UNSEEN   MADONNA. 

In  returning  from  the  hospital,  more  than  an  hour 
later,  Romola  took  a  different  road,  making  a  wider 
circuit  towards  the  river,  wliich  she  reached  at 
some  distance  from  the  Ponte  Vecchio.  She  turned 
her  steps  towards  that  bridge,  intending  to  hasten 
to  San  Stefano  in  search  of  Baldassarre.  She 
dreaded  to  know  more  about  him,  yet  she  felt  as 
if,  in  forsaking  him,  she  would  be  forsaking  some 
near  claim  upon  her. 

But  when  she  approached  the  meeting  of  the 
roads  where  the  Por'  Santa  Maria  would  be  on  her 
right  hand  and  the  Ponte  Vecchio  on  her  left,  she 
found  herself  involved  in  a  crowd  who  suddenly 
fell  on  their  knees ;  and  she  immediately  knelt 
with  them.  The  Cross  was  passing,  —  the  Great 
Cross  of  the  Duomo  —  which  headed  the  proces- 
sion. Eomola  was  later  than  she  had  expected  to 
be,  and  now  she  must  wait  till  the  procession  had 
passed.  As  she  rose  from  her  knees,  wlien  the 
Cross  had  disappeared,  the  return  to  a  standing 
posture,  with  nothing  to  do  but  gaze,  made  her 
more  conscious  of  her  fatigue  than  she  had  been 
while  she  had  been  walking  and  occupied.  A 
shopkeeper  by  her  side  said,  — 

"  Madonna  Eomola,  you  will  be  weary  of  stand- 
ing :  Gian  Fantoni  will  be  glad  to  give  you  a  seat 


THE  UNSEEN  MADONNA.  245 

in  his  house.  Here  is  his  door  close  at  hand.  Let 
me  open  it  for  you.  What !  he  loves  God  and  the 
Frate  as  we  do.     His  house  is  yours.  " 

Romola  was  accustomed  now  to  be  addressed  in 
this  fraternal  way  by  ordinary  citizens,  whose  faces 
were  familiar  to  her  from  her  having  seen  them 
constantly  in  the  Duomo.  The  idea  of  home  had 
come  to  be  identiHed  for  her  less  with  the  house  in 
the  Via  de'  Bardi,  where  she  sat  in  frequent  lone- 
liness, than  with  the  towered  circuit  of  Florence, 
where  there  was  hardly  a  turn  of  the  streets  at 
which  she  was  not  greeted  with  looks  of  appeal  or 
of  friendliness.  She  was  glad  enough  to  pass 
through  the  open  door  on  her  right  hand  and  be 
led  by  the  fraternal  hose-vender  to  an  upstairs 
window  where  a  stout  woman  with  three  children, 
all  in  the  plain  garb  of  Piagnoni,  made  a  place  for 
her  with  much  reverence  above  the  bright  hanging 
draperies.  From  this  corner  station  she  could  see 
not  only  the  procession  pouring  in  solemn  slowness 
between  the  lines  of  houses  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio, 
but  also  the  river  and  the  Lung'  Arno  on  towards 
the  bridge  of  the  Santa  Trinita. 

In  sadness  and  in  stillness  came  the  slow  pro- 
cession. Not  even  a  wailing  chant  broke  the  silent 
appeal  for  mercy:  there  was  only  the  tramp  of 
footsteps,  and  the  faint  sweep  of  woollen  garments. 
They  were  young  footsteps  that  were  passing  when 
Romola  first  looked  from  the  window,  —  a  lona 
train  of  the  Florentine  youth,  bearing  high  in  the 
midst  of  them  the  white  image  of  the  youthful 
Jesus,  with  a  golden  glory  above  his  head,  stand- 
ing by  the  tall  cross  where  the  thorns  and  the  nails 
lay  ready. 

After  tliat  train  of  fresh  beardless  faces  came 


246  ROMOLA. 

the  mysterious-looking  Companies  of  Discipline, 
bound  by  secret  rules  to  self-chastisement,  and 
devout  praise,  and  special  acts  of  piety ;  all  wear- 
ing a  garb  which  concealed  the  whole  head  and 
face  except  the  eyes.  Every  one  knew  that  these 
mysterious  forms  were  Florentine  citizens  of  vari- 
ous ranks,  who  might  be  seen  at  ordinary  times 
going  about  the  business  of  the  shop,  the  counting- 
house,  or  the  State  ;  but  no  member  now  was  discer- 
nible as  son,  husband,  or  father.  They  had  dropped 
their  personality,  and  walked  as  symbols  of  a  com- 
mon vow.  Each  company  had  its  colour  and  its 
badge ;  but  the  garb  of  all  was  a  complete  shroud, 
and  left  no  expression  but  that  of  fellowship. 

In  comparison  with  them,  the  multitude  of 
monks  seemed  to  be  strongly  distinguished  indi- 
viduals, in  spite  of  the  common  tonsure  and  the 
common  frock.  First  came  a  white  stream  of  re- 
formed Benedictines  ;  and  then  a  much  longer  stream 
of  the  Frati  Minori,  or  Franciscans,  in  that  age 
all  clad  in  gray,  with  the  knotted  cord  round  their 
waists,  and  some  of  them  with  the  zoccoli,  or 
wooden  sandals,  below  their  bare  feet ;  —  perhaps 
the  most  numerous  order  in  Florence,  owning 
many  zealous  members  who  loved  mankind  and 
hated  the  Dominicans.  And  after  the  gray  came 
the  black  of  the  Augustinians  of  San  Spirito,  with 
more  cultured  human  faces  above  it,  —  men  who 
had  inherited  the  library  of  Boccaccio,  and  had 
made  the  most  learned  company  in  Florence  when 
learning  was  rarer  ;  then  the  white  over  dark  of  the 
Carmelites ;  and  then  again  the  unmixed  black  of 
the  Servites,  that  famous  Florentine  order  founded 
by  seven  merchants  who  forsook  their  gains  to 
adore  the  Divine  Mother. 


THE  UNSEEN  MADONNA.  247 

And  now  the  hearts  of  all  on-lookers  began  to  beat 
a  little  faster,  either  with  hatred  or  with  love,  for 
there  was  a  stream  of  black  and  white  coming  over 
the  bridge, —  of  black  mantles  over  white  scaj^ula- 
ries  ;  and  every  one  knew  that  the  Dominicans  were 
coming-  Those  of  Fiesole  passed  first.  One  black 
mantle  parted  by  white  after  another,  one  tonsured 
head  after  another,  and  still  expectation  was  sus- 
pended. They  were  very  coarse  mantles,  all  of  them, 
and  many  were  threadbare,  if  not  ragged ;  for  the 
Prior  of  San  Marco  had  reduced  the  fraternities  un- 
der his  rule  to  the  strictest  poverty  and  discipline. 
But  in  the  long  line  of  black  and  white  there  was 
at  last  singled  out  a  mantle  only  a  little  more  worn 
than  the  rest,  with  a  tonsured  head  above  it  which 
might  not  have  appeared  supremely  remarkable  to 
a  stranger  who  had  not  seen  it  on  bronze  medals, 
with  the  sword  of  God  as  its  obverse;  or  sur- 
rounded by  an  armed  guard  on  the  way  to  the 
Duomo ;  or  transfigured  by  the  inward  flame  of  the 
orator  as  it  looked  round  on  a  rapt  multitude. 

As  the  approach  of  Savonarola  was  discerned, 
none  dared  conspicuously  to  break  the  stillness  by 
a  sound  which  would  rise  above  the  solemn  tramp 
of  footsteps  and  the  faint  sweep  of  garments; 
nevertheless  his  ear,  as  well  as  other  ears,  caught 
a  mingled  sound  of  slow  hissing  that  longed  to  be 
curses,  and  murmurs  that  longed  to  be  blessings. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  sense  that  the  hissing  predomi- 
nated which  made  two  or  three  of  his  disciples  in 
the  foreground  of  the  crowd,  at  the  meeting  of  the 
roads,  fall  on  their  knees,  as  if  something  divine 
were  passing.  The  movement  of  silent  homage 
spread :  it  went  along  the  sides  of  the  streets  like 
a  subtle  shock,   leaving  some  unmoved,    while  it 


248  ROMOLA. 

made  the  most  bend  the  knee  and  how  the  head. 
But  the  hatred,  too,  gathered  a  more  intense  expres- 
sion ;  and  as  Savonarola  passed  up  the  Por'  Santa 
Maria,  Komola  could  see  that  some  one  at  an  upper 
window  spat  upon  him. 

Monks  again  —  Frati  Umiliati,  or  Humbled 
Brethren,  from  Ognissanti,  with  a  glorious  tradi- 
tion of  being  the  earliest  workers  in  the  wool- 
trade  ;  and  again  more  monks  — •  Vallombrosan  and 
other  varieties  of  Benedictines,  reminding  the  in- 
structed eye  by  niceties  of  form  and  colour  that  in 
ages  of  abuse,  long  ago,  reformers  had  arisen  who 
had  marked  a  change  of  spirit  by  a  change  of  garb ; 
till  at  last  the  shaven  crowns  were  at  an  end,  and 
there  came  the  train  of  untonsured  secular  priests. 

Then  followed  the  twenty-one  incorporated  Arts 
of  Florence  in  long  array,  with  their  banners  float- 
ing above  them  in  proud  declaration  that  the  bear- 
ers had  their  distinct  functions  from  the  bakers  of 
bread  to  the  judges  and  notaries.  And  then  all 
the  secondary  officers  of  State,  beginning  with  the 
less  and  going  on  to  the  greater,  till  the  line  of 
secularities  was  broken  by  the  Canons  of  the 
Duomo,  carrying  a  sacred  relic,  —  the  very  head, 
enclosed  in  silver,  of  San  Zenobio,  immortal  bishop 
of  Florence,  whose  virtues  were  held  to  have  saved 
the  city  perhaps  a  thousand  years  before. 

Here  was  the  nucleus  of  the  procession.  Behind 
the  relic  came  the  archbishop  in  gorgeous  cope, 
with  canopy  held  above  him;  and  after  him  the 
mysterious  hidden  Image,  —  hidden  first  by  rich 
curtains  of  brocade  enclosing  an  outer  painted 
tabernacle,  but  within  this,  by  the  more  ancient 
tabernacle  which  had  never  been  opened  in  the 
memory  of  living  men,    or  the  fathers  of  living 


THE  UNSEEN  MADONNA.  249 

men.  In  that  inner  shrine  was  the  image  of  the 
Pitying  Mother,  found  ages  ago  in  the  soil  of 
L'Impruneta,  uttering  a  cry  as  the  spade  struck  it. 
Hitherto  the  unseen  Image  had  hardly  ever  been 
carried  to  the  Duomo  without  having  rich  gifts 
borne  before  it.  There  was  no  reciting  the  list  of 
precious  offerings  made  by  emulous  men  and  com- 
munities, especially  of  veils  and  curtains  and  man- 
tles. But  the  richest  of  all  these,  it  was  said,  had 
bef^n  given  by  a  poor  abbess  and  her  nuns,  who, 
having  no  money  to  buy  materials,  wove  a  mantle 
of  gold  brocade  with  their  prayers,  embroidered  it 
and  adorned  it  with  their  prayers,  and,  finally, 
saw  their  work  presented  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  in 
the  great  piazza  by  two  beautiful  youths  who 
spread  out  white  wings  and  vanished  in  the 
blue. 

But  to-day  there  were  no  gifts  carried  before  the 
tabernacle :  no  donations  were  to  be  given  to-day 
except  to  the  poor.  That  had  been  the  advice  of 
Fra  Girolamo,  whose  preaching  never  insisted  on 
gifts  to  the  invisible  powers,  but  only  on  help  to 
visible  need ;  and  altars  had  been  raised  at  various 
points  in  front  of  the  churches,  on  which  the  ob- 
lations for  the  poor  were  deposited.  Not  even  a 
torch  was  carried.  Surely  the  hidden  Mother 
cared  less  for  torches  and  brocade  than  for  the  wail 
of  the  hungry  people.  Florence  was  in  extremity  : 
she  had  done  her  utmost,  and  could  only  wait 
for  something  divine  that  was  not  in  her  own 
power. 

The  Frate  in  the  torn  mantle  had  said  that  help 
would  certainly  come,  and  many  of  the  faint-hearted 
were  clinging  more  to  their  faith  in  the  Frate 's 
word,   than  to  their  faith  in  the  virtues  of  the 


2SO  ROMOLA. 

unseen  Image.  But  there  were  not  a  few  of  the 
fierce-hearted  who  thought  with  secret  rejoicing 
that  the  Frate's  word  might  be  proved  false. 

Slowly  the  tabernacle  moved  forward,  and  knees 
were  bent.  There  was  profound  stillness ;  for  the 
train  of  priests  and  chaplains  from  L'Impruneta 
stirred  no  passion  in  the  on-lookers.  The  proces- 
sion was  about  to  close  with  the  Priors  and  .the  Gon- 
faloniere :  the  long  train  of  companies  and  symbols 
which  have  their  silent  music  and  stir  the  mind  as 
a  chorus  stirs  it,  was  passing  out  of  sight,  and  now 
a  faint  yearning  hope  was  all  that  struggled  with 
the  accustomed  despondency. 

Eomola,  whose  heart  had  been  swelling,  half 
with  foreboding,  half  with  that  enthusiasm  of 
fellowship  which  the  life  of  the  last  two  years  had 
made  as  habitual  to  her  as  the  consciousness  of 
costume  to  a  vain  and  idle  woman,  gave  a  deep 
sigh,  as  at  the  end  of  some  long  mental  tension, 
and  remained  on  her  knees  for  very  languor ;  when 
suddenly  there  flashed  from  between  the  houses  on 
to  the  distant  bridge  something  bright-coloured. 
In  the  instant  Eomola  started  up  and  stretched 
out  her  arms,  leaning  from  the  window,  while  the 
black  drapery  fell  from  her  head,  and  the  golden 
gleam  of  her  hair  and  the  flush  in  her  face  seemed 
the  effect  of  one  illumination.  A  shout  arose  in 
the  same  instant ;  the  last  troops  of  the  procession 
paused,  and  all  faces  were  turned  towards  the  dis- 
tant bridge. 

But  the  bridge  was  passed  now :  the  horseman 
was  pressing  at  full  gallop  along  by  the  Arno ;  the 
sides  of  his  bay  horse,  just  streaked  with  foam, 
looked  all  white  from  swiftness  ;  his  cap  was  flying 
loose  bv  his  red  becchetto,  and  be  waved  an  olive- 


THE  UNSEEN  MADONNA.  251 

branch  in  his  hand.  It  was  a  messenger,  —  a  mes- 
senger of  good  tidings !  The  blessed  olive-branch 
spoke  afar  off.  But  the  impatient  people  could 
not  wait.  They  rushed  to  meet  the  on-comer,  and 
seized  his  horse's  rein,  pushing  and  trampling. 

And  now  Romola  could  see  that  the  horseman 
was  her  husband,  who  had  been  sent  to  Pisa  a  few 
days  before  on  a  private  embassy.  The  recognition 
brought  no  new  flash  of  joy  into  her  eyes.  She  had 
checked  her  first  impulsive  attitude  of  expectation ; 
but  her  governing  anxiety  was  still  to  know  what 
news  of  relief  had  come  for  Florence. 

"  Good  news !  "  "  Best  news !  "  "  News  to  be 
paid  with  hose  (novelle  da  calze) !  "  were  the  vague 
answers  with  which  Tito  met  the  importunities  of 
the  crowd,  until  he  had  succeeded  in  pushing  on 
his  horse  to  the  spot  at  the  meeting  of  the  ways 
where  the  Gonfaloniere  and  the  Priors  were  await- 
ing him.  There  he  paused,  and  bowing  low, 
said,  — 

"  Magnificent  Signori !  I  have  to  deliver  to  you 
the  joyful  news  that  the  galleys  from  France, 
laden  with  corn  and  men,  have  arrived  safely  in  the 
port  of  Leghorn,  by  favour  of  a  strong  wind,  which 
kept  the  enemy's  fleet  at  a  distance. " 

The  words  had  no  sooner  left  Tito's  lips  than 
they  seemed  to  vibrate  up  the  streets.  A  great 
shout  rang  through  the  air,  and  rushed  along  the 
river;  and  then  another,  and  another;  and  the 
shouts  were  heard  spreading  along  the  line  of  the 
procession  towards  the  Duomo;  and  then  there 
were  fainter  answering  shouts,  like  the  intermedi- 
ate plash  of  distant  waves  in  a  great  lake  whose 
waters  obey  one  impulse. 

For  some  minutes  there  was  no  attempt  to  speak 


252  ROMOLA. 

further:  the  Signoria  themselves  lifted  up  their 
caps,  and  stood  bareheaded  in  the  presence  of  a 
rescue  which  had  come  from  outside  the  limit  of 
their  own  power,  —  from  that  region  of  trust  and 
resignation  which  has  been  in  all  ages  called 
divine. 

At  last,  as  the  signal  was  given  to  move  forward, 
Tito  said,  with  a  smile,  — 

"  I  ought  to  say  that  any  hose  to  be  bestowed  by 
the  Magnificent  Signoria  in  reward  of  these  tidings 
are  due,  not  to  me,  but  to  another  man  who  had 
ridden  hard  to  bring  them,  and  would  have  been 
here  in  my  place  if  his  horse  had  not  broken  down 
just  before  he  reached  Signa.  Meo  di  Sasso  will 
doubtless  be  here  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  may  all 
the  more  justly  claim  the  glory  of  the  messenger, 
because  he  has  had  the  chief  labour  and  has  lost 
the  chief  delight. " 

It  was  a  graceful  way  of  putting  a  necessary 
statement;  and  after  a  word  of  reply  from  the 
Proposto,  or  spokesman  of  the  Signoria,  this  digni- 
fied extremity  of  the  procession  passed  on,  and  Tito 
turned  his  horse's  head  to  follow  in  its  train,  while 
the  great  bell  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  was  already 
beginning  to  swing,  and  give  a  louder  voice  to  the 
people's  joy. 

In  that  moment,  when  Tito's  attention  had  ceased 
to  be  imperatively  directed,  it  might  have  been 
expected  that  he  would  look  round  and  recognize 
Eomola ;  but  he  was  apparently  engaged  with  his 
cap,  which,  now  the  eager  people  were  leading  his 
horse,  he  was  able  to  seize  and  place  on  his  head, 
while  his  right  hand  was  still  encumbered  by  the 
olive-branch.  He  had  a  becoming  air  of  lassitude 
after  his  exertions ;  and  Eomola,  instead  of  making 


It 


man 


OF 


THE  UNSEEN  MADONNA.  253 

any  effort  to  be  recognized  by  him,  threw  her  black 
drapery  over  her  head  again,  and  remained  per- 
fectly quiet.  Yet  she  felt  almost  sure  that  Tito 
had  seen  her;  he  had  the  power  of  seeing  every- 
thing without  seeming  to  see  it 


CHAPTEK   XXIV. 

THE   VISIBLE   MADONNA. 

The  crowd  had  no  sooner  passed  onward  than 
Romola  descended  to  the  street,  and  hastened  to 
the  steps  of  San  Stefano.  Cecco  had  been  attracted 
with  the  rest  towards  the  piazza,  and  she  found 
Baldassarre  standing  alone  against  the  church  door, 
with  the  horn-cup  in  his  hand,  waiting  for  her. 
There  was  a  striking  change  in  him  :  the  blank, 
dreamy  glance  of  a  half-returned  consciousness  had 
given  place  to  a  fierceness  which,  as  she  advanced 
and  spoke  to  him,  flashed  upon  her  as  if  she  had 
been  its  object.  It  was  the  glance  of  caged  fury 
that  sees  its  prey  passing  safe  beyond  the  bars. 

Romola  started  as  the  glance  was  turned  on  her, 
but  her  immediate  thought  was  that  he  had  seen 
Tito.  And  as  she  felt  the  look  of  hatred  grating 
on  her,  something  like  a  hope  arose  that  this  man 
might  be  the  criminal,  and  that  her  husband  might 
not  have  been  guilty  towards  him.  If  she  could 
learn  that  now,  by  bringing  Tito  face  to  face  with 
him,  and  have  her  mind  set  at  rest ! 

"  If  you  will  come  with  me, "  she  said,  "  I  can 
give  you  shelter  and  food  until  you  are  quite  rested 
and  strong.     Will  you  come  ? " 

"  Yes, "  said  Baldassarre,  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  get 
my  strength.     I  want  to  get  my  strength, "  he  re- 


THE  VISIBLE  MADONNA.  255 

peated,  as  if  he  were  muttering  to  himself  rather 
than  speaking  to  her. 

"  Come !  "  she  said,  inviting  him  to  walk  by  her 
side,  and  taking  the  way  by  the  Arno  towards  the 
Ponte  Rubaconte  as  the  more  private  road. 

"  I  think  you  are  not  a  Florentine, "  she  said 
presently,  as  they  turned  on  to  the  bridge. 

He  looked  round  at  her  without  speaking.  His 
suspicious  caution  was  more  strongly  upon  him 
than  usual,  just  now  that  the  fog  of  confusion  and 
oblivion  was  made  denser  by  bodily  feebleness. 
But  she  was  looking  at  him  too,  and  there  was 
something  in  her  gentle  eyes  which  at  last  com- 
pelled him  to  answer  her.  Bat  he  answered 
cautiously,  — 

"  No,  I  am  no  Florentine  ;  I  am  a  lonely  man.  " 

She  observed  his  reluctance  to  speak  to  her,  and 
dared  not  question  him  further,  lest  he  should 
desire  to  quit  her.  As  she  glanced  at  him  from 
time  to  time,  her  mind  was  busy  with  thoughts 
which  quenched  the  faint  hope  that  there  was 
nothing  painful  to  be  revealed  about  her  husband. 
If  this  old  man  had  been  in  the  wrong,  where  was 
the  cause  for  dread  and  secrecy  ? 

They  walked  on  in  silence  till  they  reached  the 
entrance  into  the  Via  de'  Bardi,  and  Romola  no- 
ticed that  he  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  a  sud- 
den movement  as  if  some  shock  had  passed  through 
him.  A  few  moments  after,  she  paused  at  the 
half-open  door  of  the  court  and  turned  towards 
him. 

"  Ah ! "  he  said,  not  waiting  for  her  to  speak, 
"  you  are  his  wife.  " 

"  Whose  wife  ? "  said  Romola. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  for  Baldassarre  to 


255  ROMOLA. 

recall  any  name  at  that  moment.  The  very  force 
with  which  the  image  of  Tito  pressed  upon  him 
seemed  to  expel  any  verbal  sign.  He  made  no  an- 
swer, but  looked  at  her  with  strange  fixedness. 

She  opened  the  door  wide,  and  showed  the  court 
covered  with  straw,  on  which  lay  four  or  five  sick 
people,  while  some  little  children  crawled  or  sat 
on  it  at  their  ease,  —  tiny  pale  creatures,  biting 
straws  and  gurgling. 

"  If  you  will  come  in, "  said  Eomola,  tremu- 
lously, "  I  will  find  you  a  comfortable  place,  and 
bring  you  some  more  food. " 

"  No,  I  will  not  come  in, "  said  Baldassarre. 
But  he  stood  still,  arrested  by  the  burden  of  im- 
pressions under  which  his  mind  was  too  confused 
to  choose  a  course. 

"  Can  I  do  nothing  for  you  ? "  said  Romola. 
"  Let  me  give  you  some  money,  that  you  may  buy 
food.     It  will  be  more  plentiful  soon.  " 

She  had  put  her  hand  into  her  scarsella  as  she 
spoke,  and  held  out  her  palm  with  several  grossi 
in  it.  She  purposely  offered  him  more  than  she 
would  have  given  to  any  other  man  in  the  same 
circumstances.  He  looked  at  the  coins  a  little 
while,  and  then  said,  — 

"  Yes,  I  will  take  them.  " 

She  poured  the  coins  into  his  palm,  and  he 
grasped  them  tightly. 

"  Tell  me, "  said  Romola,  almost  beseechingly. 
"What  shall  you—" 

But  Baldassarre  had  turned  away  from  her,  and 
was  walking  again  towards  the  bridge.  Passing 
from  it,  straight  on  up  the  Via  del  Fosso,  he  came 
upon  the  shop  of  Niccolo  Caparra,  and  turned 
towards  it  without  a  pause,  as  if  it  had  been  the 


THE  VISIBLE  MADONNA.  257 

very  object  of  his  search.  Niccolo  was  at  that 
moment  in  procession  with  the  armourers  of  Flor- 
ence, and  there  was  only  one  apprentice  in  the 
shop.  But  there  were  all  sorts  of  weapons  in 
abundance  hanging  there,  and  Baldassarre's  eyes 
discerned  what  he  was  more  hungry  for  than  for 
bread.  Niccolo  himself  would  probably  have  re- 
fused to  sell  anything  that  might  serve  as  a  weapon 
to  this  man  with  signs  of  the  prison  on  him ;  but 
the  apprentice,  less  observant  and  scrupulous,  took 
three  grossi  for  a  sharp  hunting  knife  without  any 
hesitation.  It  was  a  conveniently  small  weapon, 
which  Baldassarre  could  easily  thrust  within  the 
breast  of  his  tunic;  and  he  walked  on,  feeling 
stronger.  That  sharp  edge  might  give  deadliness 
to  the  thrust  of  an  aged  arm :  at  least  it  was  a  com- 
panion, it  was  a  power  in  league  with  him,  even 
if  it  failed.  It  would  break  against  armour,  but 
was  the  armour  sure  to  be  always  there  ?  In  those 
long  months  while  vengeance  had  lain  in  prison, 
baseness  had  perhaps  become  forgetful  and  secure. 
The  knife  had  been  bought  with  the  traitor's  own 
money.  That  was  just.  Before  he  took  the 
money,  he  had  felt  what  he  should  do  with  it,  — 
buy  a  weapon.  Yes,  and  if  possible,  food  too,  — 
food  to  nourish  the  arm  that  would  grasp  the 
weapon,  food  to  nourish  the  body  which  was  the 
temple  of  vengeance.  When  he  had  had  enough 
bread,  he  should  be  able  to  think  and  act,  —  to 
think  first  how  he  could  hide  himself,  lest  Tito 
should  have  him  dragged  away  again. 

With  that  idea  of  hiding  in  his  mind,  Baldassarre 

turned  up  the  narrowest  streets,    bought  himself 

some  meat  and  bread,  and  sat  down  under  the  first 

loggia  to  eat.     The  bells  that  swung  out  louder  and 

VOL.  11. — 17 


2s8  ROMOLA. 

louder  peals  of  joy,  laying  hold  of  him  and  making 
him  vibrate  along  with  all  the  air,  seemed  to  him 
simply  part  of  that  strong  world  which  was  against 
him. 

Romola  had  watched  Baldassarre  until  he  had 
disappeared  round  the  turning  into  the  Piazza  de' 
Mozzi,  half  feeling  that  his  departure  was  a  relief, 
half  reproaching  herself  for  not  seeking  with  more 
decision  to  know  the  truth  about  him,  for  not  as- 
suring herself  whether  there  were  any  guiltless 
misery  in  his  lot  which  she  was  not  helpless  to 
relieve.  Yet  what  could  she  have  done  if  the 
truth  had  proved  to  be  the  burden  of  some  painful 
secret  about  her  husband,  in  addition  to  the  anx- 
ieties that  already  weighed  upon  her?  Surely  a 
wife  was  permitted  to  desire  ignorance  of  a  hus- 
band's wrong-doing,  since  she  alone  must  not  pro- 
test and  warn  men  against  him.  But  that  thought 
stirred  too  many  intricate  fibres  of  feeling  to  be 
pursued  now  in  her  weariness.  It  was  a  time  to 
rejoice,  since  help  had  come  to  Florence ;  and  she 
turned  into  the  court  to  tell  the  good  news  to  her 
patients  on  their  straw  beds. 

She  closed  the  door  after  her,  lest  the  bells 
should  drown  her  voice,  and  then  throwing  the 
black  drapery  from  her  head,  that  the  women 
might  see  her  better,  she  stood  in  the  midst  and 
told  them  that  corn  was  coming,  and  that  the  bells 
were  ringing  for  gladness  at  the  news.  They  all 
sat  up  to  listen,  while  the  children  trotted  or 
crawled  towards  lier,  and  pulled  her  black  skirts, 
as  if  they  were  impatient  at  being  all  that  long 
way  off  her  face.  She  yielded  to  them,  weary  as 
she  was,  and  sat  down  on  the  straw,  while  the 
little  pale  things  peeped  into  her  basket  and  pulled 


THE  VISIBLE  MADONNA.  259 

her  hair  down,  and  the  feeble  voices  around  her 
said,  "  The  Holy  Virgin  be  praised !  "  "  It  was 
the  procession ! "  "  The  Mother  of  God  has  had 
pity  on  us !  " 

At  last  Eomola  rose  from  the  heap  of  straw,  too 
tired  to  try  and  smile  any  longer,  saying  as  she 
turned  up  the  stone  steps,  — 

"  I  will  come  by-and-by,  to  bring  you  your 
dinner.  " 

"  Bless  you,  madonna !  bless  you !  "  said  the 
faint  chorus,  in  much  the  same  tone  as  that  in 
which  they  had  a  few  minutes  before  praised  and 
thanked  the  unseen  Madonna. 

Eomola  cared  a  great  deal  for  that  music.  She 
had  no  innate  taste  for  tending  the  sick  and  clothing 
the  ragged,  like  some  women  to  whom  the  details 
of  such  work  are  welcome  in  themselves,  simply 
as  an  occupation.  Her  early  training  had  kept 
her  aloof  from  such  womanly  labours ;  and  if  she 
had  not  brought  to  them  the  inspiration  of  her 
deepest  feelings,  they  would  have  been  irksome  to 
her.  But  they  had  come  to  be  the  one  unshaken 
resting-place  of  her  mind,  the  one  narrow  pathway 
on  which  the  light  fell  clear.  If  the  gulf  between 
herself  and  Tito  which  only  gathered  a  more  per- 
ceptible wideness  from  her  attempts  to  bridge  it  by 
submission,  brought  a  doubt  whether,  after  all,  the 
bond  to  which  she  had  laboured  to  be  true  might 
not  itself  be  false,  —  if  she  came  away  from  her 
confessor,  Fra  Salvestro,  or  from  some  contact  with 
the  disciples  of  Savonarola  among  whom  she  wor- 
shipped, with  a  sickening  sense  that  these  people 
were  miserably  narrow,  and  with  an  almost  im- 
petuous reaction  towards  her  old  contempt  for  their 
superstition,  —  she  found  herself  recovering  a  firm 


26o  ROMOLA. 

footing  in  lier  works  of  womanly  sympathy.  What- 
ever else  made  her  doubt,  the  help  she  gave  to  her 
fellow-citizens  made  her  sure  that  Fra  Girolamo 
had  been  right  to  call  her  back.  According  to  his 
unforgotten  words,  her  place  had  not  been  empty : 
it  had  been  filled  with  her  love  and  her  labour. 
Florence  had  had  need  of  her,  and  the  more  her 
own  sorrow  pressed  upon  her,  the  more  gladness 
she  felt  in  the  memories,  stretching  through  the 
two  long  years  of  hours  and  moments  in  which  she 
had  lightened  the  burden  of  life  to  others.  All 
that  ardour  of  her  nature  which  could  no  longer 
spend  itself  in  the  woman's  tenderness  for  father 
and  husband,  had  transformed  itself  into  an  enthu- 
siasm of  sympathy  with  the  general  life.  She  had 
ceased  to  think  that  her  own  lot  could  be  happy,  — 
had  ceased  to  think  of  happiness  at  all :  the  one  end 
of  her  life  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  diminishing  of 
sorrow. 

Her  enthusiasm  was  continually  stirred  to  fresh 
vigour  by  the  influence  of  Savonarola.  In  spite 
of  the  wearisome  visions  and  allegories  from 
which  she  recoiled  in  disgust  when  they  came  as 
stale  repetitions  from  otlier  lips  than  his,  her 
strong  affinity  for  his  passionate  sympathy  and  the 
splendour  of  his  aims  had  lost  none  of  its  power. 
His  burning  indignation  against  the  abuses  and 
oppression  that  made  the  daily  story  of  the  Church 
and  of  States  had  kindled  the  ready  fire  in  her  too. 
His  special  care  for  liberty  and  purity  of  govern- 
ment in  Florence,  with  his  constant  reference  of 
this  immediate  object  to  the  wider  end  of  a  uni- 
versal regeneration,  had  created  in  her  a  new  con- 
sciousness of  the  great  drama  of  human  existence 
in  which  her  life  was  a  part;    and  through  her 


THE  VISIBLE  MADONNA.  261 

daily  helpful  contact  with  the  less  fortunate  of 
her  fellow-citizens  this  new  consciousness  became 
something  stronger  than  a  vague  sentiment;  it 
grew  into  a  more  and  more  definite  motive  of  self- 
denying  practice.  She  thought  little  about  dogmas, 
and  shrank  from  reflecting  closely  on  the  Frate's 
prophecies  of  the  immediate  scourge  and  closely 
following  regeneration.  She  had  submitted  her 
mind  to  his,  and  had  entered  into  communion  with 
the  Church,  because  in  this  way  she  had  found  an 
immediate  satisfaction  for  moral  needs  which  all 
the  previous  culture  and  experience  of  her  life 
had  left  hungering.  Fra  Girolamo's  voice  had 
waked  in  her  mind  a  reason  for  living,  apart  from 
personal  enjoyment  and  personal  affection ;  but  it 
was  a  reason  that  seemed  to  need  feeding  with 
greater  forces  than  she  possessed  within  herself, 
and  her  submissive  use  of  all  offices  of  the  Church 
was  simply  a  watching  and  waiting  if  by  any 
means  fresh  strength  might  come.  The  pressing 
problem  for  Eomola  just  then  was  not  to  settle 
questions  of  controversy,  but  to  keep  alive  that 
flame  of  unselfish  emotion  by  which  a  life  of  sad- 
ness might  still  be  a  life  of  active  love. 

Her  trust  in  Savonarola's  nature  as  greater  than 
her  own  made  a  large  part  of  the  strength  she  had 
found.  And  the  trust  was  not  to  be  lightly  shaken. 
It  is  not  force  of  intellect  which  causes  ready  repul- 
sion from  the  aberration  and  eccentricities  of  great- 
ness, any  more  than  it  is  force  of  vision  that  causes 
the  eye  to  explore  the  warts  on  a  face  bright  with 
human  expression ;  it  is  simply  the  negation  of 
high  sensibilities.  Eomola  was  so  deeply  moved 
by  the  grand  energies  of  Savonarola's  nature,  that 
she  found  herself  listening  patiently  to  all  dogmas 


262  ROMOLA. 

and  prophecies,  when  they  came  in  the  vehicle  of 
his  ardent  faith  and  believing  utterance.  ^ 

No  soul  is  desolate  as  long  as  there  is  a  human 
being  for  whom  it  can  feel  trust  and  reverence. 
Eomola's  trust  in  Savonarola  was  something  like 
a  rope  suspended  securely  by  her  path,  making  her 
step  elastic  while  she  grasped  it ;  if  it  were  sud- 
denly removed,  no  firmness  of  the  ground  she  trod 
could  save  her  from  staggering,  or  perhaps  from 
falling. 

1  He  himself  had  had  occasion  enough  to  note  the  efficacy  of 
that  vehicle.  "  If,"  he  says  in  the  "  Compeudiura  Revelationum," 
"  you  speak  of  such  as  have  not  heard  these  things  from  me,  I  ad- 
mit that  they  who  disbelieve  are  more  than  they  who  believe,  be- 
cause it  is  one  thing  to  hear  him  who  inwardly  feels  these  things, 
and  another  to  hear  him  who  feels  them  not ;  .  .  .  and,  therefore, 
it  is  well  said  by  St.  Jerome,  '  Habet  nescio  quid  lateutis  euergiae 
vivsE  vocis  actus,  et  in  aures  discipuli  de  auctoris  ore  transfusa 
fortis  sonat.' " 


CHAPTEE   XXV. 

AT   THE   barber's    SHOP. 

After  that  welcome  appearance  as  the  messenger 
with  the  olive-branch,  which  was  an  unpromised 
favour  of  fortune,  Tito  had  other  commissions  to 
fulfil  of  a  more  premeditated  character.  He  paused 
at  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  and  awaited  there  the  re- 
turn of  the  Ten,  who  managed  external  and  war 
affairs,  that  he  might  duly  deliver  to  them  the  re- 
sults of  his  private  mission  to  Pisa,  intended  as  a 
preliminary  to  an  avowed  embassy  of  which  Bar- 
nardi  Eucellai  was  to  be  the  head,  with  the  object 
of  coming,  if  possible,  to  a  pacific  understanding 
with  the  Emperor  Maximilian  and  the  League. 

Tito's  talents  for  diplomatic  work  had  been  well 
ascertained ;  and  as  he  gave  with  fulness  and  pre- 
cision the  results  of  his  inquiries  and  interviews, 
Bernardo  del  Nero,  who  was  at  that  time  one  of 
the  Ten,  could  not  withhold  his  admiration.  He 
would  have  withheld  it  if  he  could;  for  his  ori- 
ginal dislike  of  Tito  had  returned,  and  become 
stronger,  since  the  sale  of  the  library.  Eomola 
had  never  uttered  a  word  to  her  godfather  on  the 
circumstances  of  the  sale,  and  Bernardo  had  under- 
stood her  silence  as  a  prohibition  to  him  to  enter 
on  the  subject ;  but  he  felt  sure  that  the  breach  of 
her  father's  wish  had  been  a  blighting  grief  to  her, 


264  ROMOLA. 

and  the  old  man's  observant  eyes  discerned  otliei 
indications  that  her  married  life  was  not  happy 

"  Ah, "  he  said  inwardly,  "  that  doubtless  is  the 
reason  she  has  taken  to  listening  to  Fra  Girolamo, 
and  going  among  the  Piagnoni,  which  I  never  ex- 
pected from  her.  These  women,  if  they  are  not 
happy,  and  have  no  children,  must  either  take  to 
folly  or  to  some  overstrained  religion  that  makes 
them  think  they  've  got  all  heaven's  work  on  their 
shoulders.  And  as  for  my  poor  child  Eomola,  it 
is  as  I  always  said, — the  cramming  with  Latin 
and  Greek  has  left  her  as  much  a  woman  as  if  she 
had  done  nothing  all  day  but  prick  her  fingers 
with  the  needle.  And  this  husband  of  hers,  who 
gets  employed  everywhere,  because  he  's  a  tool 
with  a  smooth  handle,  I  wish  Tornabuoni  and  the 
rest  may  not  find  their  fingers  cut.  Well,  well, 
solco  torto,  sacco  dritto,  —  many  a  full  sack  comes 
from  a  crooked  furrow ;  and  he  who  will  be  cap- 
tain of  none  but  honest  men  will  have  small  hire 
to  pay. " 

With  this  long-established  conviction  tliat  there 
could  be  no  moral  sifting  of  political  agents,  the 
old  Florentine  abstained  from  all  interference  in 
Tito's  disfavour.  Apart  from  what  must  be  kept 
sacred  and  private  for  Eomola 's  sake,  Bernardo  had 
nothing  direct  to  allege  against  the  useful  Greek, 
except  that  he  was  a  Greek,  and  that  he,  Ber- 
nardo, did  not  like  him ;  for  the  doubleness  of 
feigning  attachment  to  the  popular  government, 
while  at  heart  a  Medicean,  was  common  to  Tito 
with  more  than  half  of  the  Medicean  party.  Fie 
only  feigned  with  more  skill  than  the  rest :  that 
was  all.  So  Bernardo  was  simply  cold  to  Tito, 
who  returned  the  coldness  with  a  scrupulous,  dis- 


AT  THE  BARBER'S  SHOP.  265 

tant  respect.  And  it  was  still  the  notion  in  Flor- 
ence that  the  old  tie  between  Bernardo  and  Bardo 
made  any  service  done  to  Romola's  husband  an 
acceptable  homage  to  her  godfather. 

After  delivering  himself  of  his  charge  at  the 
Old  Palace,  Tito  felt  that  the  avowed  official  work 
of  the  day  was  done.  He  was  tired  and  adust 
with  long  riding ;  but  he  did  not  go  home.  There 
were  certain  things  in  his  scarsella  and  on  his 
mind  from  which  he  wished  to  free  himself  as 
soon  as  possible,  but  the  opportunities  must  be 
found  so  skilfully  that  they  must  not  seem  to  be 
sought.  Ho  walked  from  the  Palazzo  in  a  saunter- 
ing fashion  towards  the  Piazza  del  Duomo  The 
procession  was  at  an  end  now,  but  the  bells  were 
still  ringing,  and  the  people  were  moving  about 
the  streets  restlessly,  longing  for  some  more  defi- 
nite vent  to  their  joy.  If  the  Frate  could  have 
stood  up  in  the  great  piazza  and  preached  to  them, 
they  might  have  been  satisfied ;  but  now,  in  spite 
of  the  new  discipline  which  declared  Christ  to  be 
the  special  King  of  the  Florentines,  and  required 
all  pleasures  to  be  of  a  Christian  sort,  there  was  a 
secret  longing  in  many  of  the  youngsters  who 
shouted  "  Viva  Gesu !  "  for  a  little  vigorous  stone- 
throwing  in  sign  of  thankfulness. 

Tito,  as  he  passed  along,  could  not  escape  being 
recognized  by  some  as  the  welcome  bearer  of  the 
olive-branch,  and  could  only  rid  himself  of  an  in- 
convenient ovation,  chiefly  in  the  form  of  eager 
questions,  by  telling  those  who  pressed  on  him 
that  Meo  di  Sasso,  the  true  messenger  from  Leg- 
horn, must  now  be  entering,  and  might  certainly 
be  met  towards  the  Porta  San  Frediano.  He  could 
tell  much  more  than  Tito  knew. 


266  EOMOLA. 

Freeing  himself  from  importunities  in  this  adroit 
manner,  he  made  his  way  to  the  Piazza  del  Duomo, 
casting  his  long  eyes  round  the  space  with  an  air 
of  the  utmost  carelessness,  but  really  seeking  to  de- 
tect some  presence  which  might  furnish  him  with 
one  of  his  desired  opportunities.  The  fact  of  the 
procession  having  terminated  at  the  Duomo  made  it 
probable  that  there  would  be  more  than  the  usual 
concentration  of  loungers  and  talkers  in  the  piazza 
and  round  Nello's  shop.  It  was  as  he  expected. 
There  was  a  group  leaning  against  the  rails  near  the 
north  gates  of  the  baptistery,  so  exactly  what  he 
sought  that  he  looked  more  indifferent  than  ever, 
and  seemed  to  recognize  the  tallest  member  of  the 
group  entirely  by  chance  as  he  had  half  passed 
him,  just  turning  his  head  to  give  him  a  slight 
greeting,  while  he  tossed  the  end  of  his  hecchetto 
over  his  left  shoulder. 

Yet  the  tall,  broad-shouldered  personage  greeted 
in  that  slight  way  looked  like  one  who  had  con- 
siderable claims.  He  wore  a  richly  embroidered 
tunic,  with  a  great  show  of  linen,  after  the  newest 
French  mode,  and  at  his  belt  there  hung  a  sword 
and  poniard  of  fine  workmanship.  His  hat,  with 
a  red  plume  in  it,  seemed  a  scornful  protest  against 
the  gravity  of  Florentine  costume,  which  had  been 
exaggerated  to  the  utmost  under  the  influence  of 
the  Piagnoni.  Certain  undefinable  indications  of 
youth  made  the  breadth  of  his  face  and  the  large 
diameter  of  his  waist  appear  the  more  emphatically 
a  stamp  of  coarseness,  and  his  eyes  had  that  rude 
desecrating  stare  at  all  men  and  things  which  to  a 
refined  mind  is  as  intolerable  as  a  bad  odour  or  a 
flaring  light. 

He  and  his  companions,  also  young  men  dressed 


AT  THE  BARBER'S  SHOP.  267 

expensively  and  wearing  arms,  were  exchanging 
jokes  with  that  sort  of  ostentatious  laughter  which 
implies  a  desire  to  prove  that  the  laughter  is  not 
mortified,  though  some  people  might  suspect  it. 
There  were  good  reasons  for  such  a  suspicion  ;  for 
this  broad-shouldered  man  with  the  red  feather 
was  Dolfo  Spini,  leader  of  the  Compagnacci,  or 
Evil  Companions, —  that  is  to  say,  of  all  the  disso- 
lute young  men  belonging  to  the  old  aristocratic 
party,  enemies  of  the  Mediceans,  enemies  of  the 
popular  government,  but  still  more  bitter  enemies 
of  Savonarola.  Dolfo  Spini,  heir  of  the  great  house 
with  the  loggia,  over  the  bridge  of  the  Santa  Tri- 
nita,  had  organized  these  young  men  into  an  armed 
band,  as  sworn  champions  of  extravagant  suppers 
and  all  the  pleasant  sins  of  the  flesh,  against  re- 
forming pietists  who  threatened  to  make  the  world 
chaste  and  temperate  to  so  intolerable  a  degree  that 
there  would  soon  be  no  reason  for  living,  except 
the  extreme  unpleasantness  of  the  alternative.  Up 
to  this  very  morning  he  had  been  loudly  declaring 
that  Florence  was  given  up  to  famine  and  ruin  en- 
tirely through  its  blind  adherence  to  the  advice  of 
the  Frate,  and  that  there  could  be  no  salvation  for 
Florence  but  in  joining  the  League  and  driving  the 
Frate  out  of  the  city,  — sending  him  to  Eome,  in 
fact,  whither  he  ought  to  have  gone  long  ago  in 
obedience  to  the  summons  of  the  Pope.  It  was 
suspected,  therefore,  that  Messer  Dolfo  Spini 's 
heart  was  not  aglow  with  pure  joy  at  the  unex- 
pected succours  which  had  come  in  apparent  fulfil- 
ment of  the  Frate 's  prediction;  and  the  laughter, 
which  was  ringing  out  afresh  as  Tito  joined  tl.e 
group  at  Nello's  door,  did  not  serve  to  dissipate 
the  suspicion.      For  leaning  against  the  door-post 


268  ROMOLA. 

in  the  centre  of  the  group  was  a  close-shaven, 
keen-eyed  personage,  named  Niccolo  Macchiavelli, 
who,  young  as  he  was,  had  penetrated  all  the  small 
secrets  of  egoism. 

"  Messer  Dolfo's  head,"  he  was  saying,  "  is  more 
of  a  pumpkin  than  I  thought.  I  measure  men's 
dulness  by  the  devices  they  trust  in  for  deceiving 
others.  Your  dullest  animal  of  all  is  he  who  grins 
and  says  he  doesn't  mind  just  after  he  has  had  his 
shins  kicked.  If  I  were  a  trifle  duller,  now, "  he 
went  on,  smiling  as  the  circle  opened  to  admit 
Tito,  "  I  should  pretend  to  be  fond  of  this  Melema, 
who  has  got  a  secretaryship  that  would  exactly  suit 
me,  —  as  if  Latin  ill-paid  could  love  better  Latin 
that 's  better  paid !  Melema,  you  are  a  pestifer- 
ously clever  fellow,  very  much  in  my  way,  and 
I  'm  sorry  to  hear  you  've  had  another  piece  of 
good -luck  to-day. " 

"  Questionable  luck,  Niccolo, "  said  Tito,  touch- 
ing him  on  the  shoulder  in  a  friendly  way ;  "  I 
have  got  nothing  by  it  yet  but  being  laid  hold  of 
and  breathed  upon  by  wool-beaters,  when  I  am  as 
soiled  and  battered  with  riding  as  a  tahellario 
(letter-carrier)  from  Bologna.  " 

"  Ah !  you  want  a  touch  of  my  art,  Messer  Ora- 
tore, "  said  Nello,  who  had  come  forward  at  the 
sound  of  Tito's  voice;  "  your  chin,  I  perceive,  has 
yesterday's  crop  upon  it.  Come,  come, — consign 
yourself  to  the  priest  of  all  the  Muses.  Sandro, 
quick  with  the  lather !  " 

"  In  truth,  Nello,  that  is  just  what  I  most  desire 
at  this  moment, "  said  Tito,  seating  himself ;  "  and 
that  was  why  I  turned  my  steps  towards  thy  shop, 
instead  of  going  home  at  once,  when  I  had  done 
my  business  at  the  Palazzo. " 


OF  THE 
»"""■  lUINOlS 


AT  THE  BARBER'S  SHOP.  269 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  not  fitting  that  you  should 
present  yourself  to  Madonna  Romola  with  a  rusty 
chin  and  a  tangled  zazzera.  Nothing  that  is  not 
dainty  ought  to  approach  the  Florentine  lily ; 
though  I  see  her  constantly  going  about  like  a 
sunbeam  among  the  rags  that  line  our  corners, —  if 
indeed  she  is  not  more  like  a  moonbeam  now,  for 
I  thought  yesterday,  when  I  met  her,  that  she 
looked  as  pale  and  worn  as  that  fainting  Madonna 
of  Fra  Giovanni's.  You  must  see  to  it,  my  bel 
erudito :  she  keeps  too  many  fasts  and  vigils  in 
your  absence. " 

Tito  gave  a  melancholy  shrug.  "  It  is  too  true, 
Nello.  She  has  been  depriving  herself  of  half  her 
proper  food  every  day  during  this  famine.  But 
what  can  I  do  ?  Her  mind  has  been  set  all  aflame. 
A  husband's  influence  is  powerless  against  the 
Frate's. " 

"  As  every  other  influence  is  likely  to  be,  that  of 
the  Holy  Father  included, "  said  Donienico  Cennini, 
one  of  the  group  at  the  door,  who  had  turned  in 
with  Tito.  "  I  don't  know  whether  you  have 
gathered  anything  at  Pisa  about  the  way  the  wind 
sits  at  Piome,  Melema  ?  " 

"  Secrets  of  the  council  chamber,  Messer  Dome- 
nico !  "  said  Tito,  smiling  and  opening  his  palms 
in  a  deprecatory  manner.  "  An  envoy  must  be  as 
dumb  as  a  father  confessor. " 

"  Certainly,  certainly, "  said  Cennini.  "  I  ask 
for  no  breach  of  that  rule.  Well,  my  belief  is, 
that  if  his  Holiness  were  to  drive  Fra  Girolamo  to 
extremity,  the  Frate  would  move  heaven  and  earth 
to  get  a  General  Council  of  the  Church,  —  ay,  and 
would  get  it  too;  and  T,  for  one,  should  not  be 
sorry,  though  I  'm  uo  Piagnoue. " 


270  EOMOLA. 

"  With  leave  of  your  greater  experience,  Messer 
Doinenico, "  said  Macchiavelli,  "  I  mvist  differ  from 
you,  —  not  in  your  wish  to  see  a  Geneva!  Council 
which  might  reform  the  Church,  but  in  your  belief 
that  the  Frate  will  checkmate  his  Holiness.  The 
Prate's  game  is  an  impossible  one.  If  he  had  con- 
tented himself  with  preaching  against  the  vices  of 
Rome,  and  with  prophesying  that  in  sonje  way, 
not  mentioned,  Italy  would  be  scourged,  depend 
upon  it  Pope  Alexander  would  have  allowed  him 
to  spend  his  breath  in  that  way  as  long  as  he  could 
find  hearers.  Such  spiritual  blasts  as  those  knock 
no  walls  down.  But  the  Frate  wants  to  be  some^ 
thing  more  than  a  spiritual  trumpet :  he  wants  to 
be  a  lever,  and  what  is  more,  he  is  a  lever.  He 
wants  to  spread  the  doctrine  of  Christ  by  main- 
taining a  popular  government  in  Florence,  and  the 
Pope,  as  I  know,  on  the  best  authority,  has  private 
views  to  the  contrary.  " 

"  Then  Florence  will  stand  by  the  Frate, "  Cen- 
nini  broke  in,  with  some  fervour.  "  I  myself 
should  prefer  that  he  would  let  his  prophesying 
alone ;  but  if  our  freedom  to  choose  our  own  gov- 
ernment is  to  be  attacked  —  I  am  an  obedient  son 
of  the  Church,  but  I  would  vote  for  resisting  Pope 
Alexander  the  Sixth,  as  our  forefathers  resisted 
Pope  Gregory  the  Eleventh. " 

"  But  pardon  me,  Messer  Domenico, "  said  Mac- 
chiavelli, sticking  his  thumbs  into  his  belt,  and 
speaking  with  that  cool  enjoyment  of  exposition 
which  surmounts  every  other  force  in  discussion. 
"Have  you  correctly  seized  the  Frate 's  position? 
How  is  it  that  he  has  become  a  lever,  and  made 
himself  worth  attacking  by  an  acute  man  like  his 
Holiness  ?     Because  he  has  got  the  ear  of  the  peo- 


AT  THE  BARBER'S  SHOP.  271 

pie :  because  he  gives  them  threats  and  promises, 
which  they  believe  come  straight  from  God,  not 
only  about  hell,  purgatory,  and  paradise,  but  about 
Pisa  and  our  Great  Council.     But  let  events  go 
against  him,  so  as  to  shake  the  people's  faith,  and 
the  cause  of  his  power  will  be  the  cause  of  his 
fall.     He  is  accumulating  three  sorts  of  hatred  on 
his  head,  —  the  hatred  of  average  mankind  against 
every  one  who  wants  to  lay  on  them  a  strict  yoke 
of  virtue;   the  hatred  of  the  stronger  powers  in 
Italy  who  want  to  farm  Florence  for  their  own 
purposes ;  and  the  hatred  of  the  people,  to  whom 
he  has  ventured  to  promise  good  in  this  world,  in- 
stead of  confining  his  promises  to  the  next.     If  a 
prophet  is  to  keep  his  power,  he  must  be  a  prophet 
like  Mahomet,   with  an  army  at  his  back,    that 
when   the   people's   faith   is   fainting   it   may  be 
frightened  into  life  again." 

"  Rather  sum  up  the  three  sorts  of  hatred  in 
one, "  said  Francesco  Cei,  impetuously,  "  and  say 
he  has  won  the  hatred  of  all  men  who  have  sense 
and  honesty,  by  inventing  hypocritical  lies.  His 
proper  place  is  among  the  false  prophets  in  the 
Inferno,  who  walk  with  their  heads  turned  hind- 
foremost.  " 

"  You  are  too  angry,  my  Francesco, "  said  Mac- 
chiavelli,  smiling;  "  you  poets  are  apt  to  cut  the 
clouds  in  your  wrath.  I  am  no  votary  of  the 
Frate's,  and  would  not  lay  down  my  little  finger 
for  his  veracity.  But  veracity  is  a  plant  of  para- 
dise, and  the  seeds  have  never  flourished  beyond 
the  walls.  You  yourself,  my  Francesco,  tell 
poetical  lies  only ;  partly  compelled  by  the  poet's 
fervour,  partly  to  please  your  audience;  but  you 
object  to  lies  in  prose.     Well,  the  Frate    differs 


272  ROMOLA. 

from  you  as  to  the  boundary  of  poetry,  that  is  all. 
When  he  gets  into  the  pulpit  of  the  Duomo,  he 
has  the  fervour  within  him,  and  without  him  he 
has  the  audience  to  please.     Ecco ! " 

"  You  are  somewhat  lax  there,  Niccolo, "  said 
Cennini,  gravely.  "  I  myself  believe  in  the  Frate's 
integrity,  though  I  don't  believe  in  his  prophecies; 
and  as  long  as  his  integrity  is  not  disproved,  we 
have  a  popular  party  strong  enough  to  protect  him 
and  resist  foreign  interference.  " 

"  A  party  that  seems  strong  enough, "  said  Mac- 
chiavelli,  with  a  shrug,  and  an  almost  impercep- 
tible glance  towards  Tito,  who  was  abandoning 
himself  with  much  enjoyment  to  Nello's  combing 
and  scenting.  "  But  how  many  Mediceans  are 
there  among  you  ?  How  many  who  will  not  be 
turned  round  by  a  private  grudge  ?  " 

"  As  to  the  Mediceans, "  said  Cennini,  "  I  believe 
there  is  very  little  genuine  feeling  left  on  behalf  of 
the  Medici.  Who  would  risk  much  for  Piero  de' 
Medici  ?  A  few  old  stanch  friends,  perhaps,  like 
Bernardo  del  Nero ;  but  even  some  of  those  most 
connected  with  the  family  are  hearty  friends  of  the 
popular  government,  and  would  exert  themselves 
for  the  Frate.  I  was  talking  to  Giannozzo  Pucci 
only  a  little  while  ago,  and  I  am  convinced  there  's 
nothing  he  would  set  his  face  against  more  than 
against  any  attempt  to  alter  the  new  order  of 
things. " 

"  You  are  right  there,  Messer  Domenico, "  said 
Tito,  with  a  laughing  meaning  in  his  eyes,  as  he 
rose  from  the  shaving-chair ;  "  and  I  fancy  the 
tender  passion  came  in  aid  of  hard  theory  there. 
I  am  persuaded  there  was  some  jealousy  at  the 
bottom  of  Giannozzo's  alienation  from  Piero  de* 


AT  THE  BARBER'S  SHOP.  273 

Medici ;  else  so  amiable  a  creature  as  he  would 
never  feel  the  bitterness  he  sometimes  allows  to 
escape  him  in  that  quarter.  He  was  in  the  pro- 
cession with  you,   I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Cennini ;  "  he  is  at  his  villa, —  went 
there  three  days  ago. " 

Tito  was  settling  his  cap  and  glancing  down  at 
his  splashed  hose  as  if  he  hardly  heeded  the  an- 
swer. In  reality  he  had  obtained  a  much-desired 
piece  of  information.  He  had  at  that  moment  in 
his  scarsella  a  crushed  gold  ring  which  he  had 
engaged  to  deliver  to  Giannozzo  Pucci.  He  had 
received  it  from  an  envoy  of  Piero  de'  Medici, 
whom  he  had  ridden  out  of  his  way  to  meet  at 
Certaldo  on  the  Siena  road.  Since  Pucci  was  not 
in  the  town,  he  would  send  the  ring  by  Fra  Mi- 
chele,  a  Carthusian  lay  Brother  in  the  service  of 
the  Mediceans ;  and  the  receipt  of  that  sign  would 
bring  Pucci  back  to  hear  the  verbal  part  of  Tito's 
mission. 

"  Behold  him  1  "  said  Nello,  flourishing  his  comb 
and  pointing  it  at  Tito,  "  the  handsomest  scholar 
in  the  world  or  in  the  wolds,  ^  now  he  has  passed 
through  my  hands!  A  triHe  thinner  in  the  face, 
though,  than  when  he  came  in  his  first  bloom  to 
Florence, — eh?  and,  I  vow,  there  are  some  lines 
just  faintly  hinting  themselves  about  your  mouth, 
Messer  Oratore!  Ah,  mind  is  an  enemy  to  beauty! 
I  myself  was  thought  beautiful  by  the  women  at 
one  time, — when  1  was  in  my  swaddling-bands. 
But  now  —  oimfe!  I  carry  my  unwritten  poems  in 
cipher  on  my  face !  " 

Tito,  laughing  with  the  rest  as  Nello  looked  at 
himself  tragically  in  the  hand-mirror,  made  a  sign 

'  "  Del  niomlo  o  di  marcmma." 
VOL.  II    —  18 


274  ROMOLA. 

of  farewell  to  the  company  generally,  and  took  his 
departure. 

"  I  'm  of  our  old  Piero  di  Cosimo's  mind,"  said 
Francesco  Cei.  "  I  don't  half  like  Melema.  That 
trick  of  smiling  gets  stronger  than  ever, —  no  won- 
der he  has  lines  about  the  mouth. " 

"  He  's  too  successful, "  said  Macchiavelli,  play- 
fully. "  I  'm  sure  there  's  something  wrong  -about 
him,  else  he  wouldn't  have  that  secretaryship.  " 

"  He  's  an  able  man, "  said  Cennini,  in  a  tone  of 
judicial  fairness.  "  I  and  my  brother  have  always 
found  him  useful  with  our  Greek  sheets,  and  he 
gives  great  satisfaction  to  the  Ten.  I  like  to  see 
a  young  man  work  his  way  upward  by  merit.  And 
the  secretary  Scala,  who  befriended  him  from  the 
first,   thinks  highly  of  him  still,   I  know.  " 

"  Doubtless, "  said  a  notary  in  the  background. 
"  He  writes  Scala 's  official  letters  for  him,  or  cor- 
rects them,  and  gets  well  paid  for  it  too.  " 

"  I  wish  Messer  Bartolommeo  would  pay  me  to 
doctor  his  gouty  Latin, "  said  Macchiavelli,  with  a 
shrug.  "  Did  he  tell  you  about  the  pay,  Ser  Cec- 
cone,  or  was  it  Melema  himself  ?  "  he  added,  look- 
ing at  the  notary  with  a  face  ironically  innocent. 

"  Melema  ?  No,  indeed, "  answered  Ser  Ceccone. 
"  He  is  as  close  as  a  nut.  He  never  brags.  That 's 
why  he  's  employed  everywhere.  They  say  he  's 
getting  rich  with  doing  all  sorts  of  underhand 
work.  " 

"  It  is  a  little  too  bad, "  said  Macchiavelli,  "  and 
so  many  able  notaries  out  of  employment !  " 

"  Well,  I  must  say  I  thought  that  was  a  nasty 
story  a  year  or  two  ago  about  the  man  who  said  he 
had  stolen  jewels, "  said  Cei.  "  It  got  hushed  up 
somehow ;  but  I  remember  Piero  di  Cosimo  said. 


AT  THE  BARBER'S  SHOP.  275 

at  the  time,  he  believed  there  was  something  in  it, 
for  he  saw  Melema's  face  when  the  man  haid  hold 
of  him,  and  he  never  saw  a  visage  so  '  painted  with 
fear, '  as  our  sour  old  Dante  says.  " 

"  Come,  spit  no  more  of  that  venom,  Francesco, " 
said  Nello,  getting  indignant,  "  else  I  shall  con- 
sider it  a  public  duty  to  cut  your  hair  awry  the 
next  time  I  get  you  under  my  scissors.  That  story 
of  the  stolen  jewels  was  a  lie.  Bernardo  Rucellai 
and  the  Magnificent  Eight  knew  all  about  it.  The 
man  was  a  dangerous  madman,  and  he  was  very 
properly  kept  out  of  mischief  in  prison.  As  for 
our  Piero  di  Cosimo,  his  wits  are  running  after 
the  wind  of  Mongibello :  he  has  such  an  extrava- 
gant fancy  that  he  would  take  a  lizard  for  a  croco- 
dile. No :  that  story  has  been  dead  and  buried  too 
long,  —  our  noses  object  to  it.  " 

"  It  is  true, "  said  Macchiavelli.  "  You  forget 
the  danger  of  the  precedent,  Francesco.  The  next 
mad  beggarman  may  accuse  you  of  stealing  his 
verses,  or  me,  God  help  me !  of  stealing  his  cop- 
pers. Ah ! "  he  went  on,  turning  towards  the  door, 
"  Dolfo  Spiui  has  carried  his  red  feather  out  of  the 
piazza.  That  captain  of  swaggerers  would  like  the 
Republic  to  lose  Pisa  just  for  the  chance  of  seeing 
the  people  tear  the  frock  off  the  Frate's  back. 
With  your  pardon,  Francesco,  —  I  know  he  is  a 
friend  of  yours,  —  there  are  few  things  I  should 
like  better  than  to  see  him  play  the  part  of  Capo 
d'Oca,  who  went  out  to  the  tournament  blowing 
his  trumpets  and  returned  with  them  in  a  bag,  " 


END   OF    VOL.    II. 


\i 


.N 
^ 


i) 


\ 


hi 


■I  'L  . 

«       Mi    • 


